


Hold On to What We Are

by phthalo



Series: Alone, Until I Get Home [3]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-17
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-02-08 04:00:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 28
Words: 124,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21469717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phthalo/pseuds/phthalo
Summary: The Final Battle is approaching—whatever the hell that is.Apparently Emma has a part to play, though she has no idea what exactly is required of her—or what it will cost her. All she knows is that the two pink lines on her pregnancy test just raised the stakes.
Relationships: Captain Hook | Killian Jones/Emma Swan
Series: Alone, Until I Get Home [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1400563
Comments: 512
Kudos: 616





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> No, your eyes are not deceiving you; this fic has been restarted, so welcome one and all to the reboot! I've been having a crisis for the past few weeks because I realized I effed up and wasn't writing the story I wanted to write, and after a lot of agonizing and some advice and a lot of encouragement, I decided to start rewriting. Chapter 1 is actually only slightly different than what I wrote originally, but chapter 2 will start the real "Ah shit, I fucked up" divergence from the first version. I apologize for being legitimately terrible and hope that you are able to roll with me on this one. To everyone sticking around, thank you so much and also buckle up because god damn it I intend to do things right this time!

It's December 3rd, exactly 5 days since Emma found out she's pregnant, and she still hasn't told Killian.

Every time she opens her mouth to tell him, something stops her, some jolt of fear that shoots up her throat and strangles her vocal cords, forcing her to choke the words back down.

There haven't been many good opportunities to bring it up, things being incredibly hectic with their jobs and school and getting Henry back to college and with hockey season being in full swing—hell, their weekly Monday night "date night" got cancelled because Ian forgot to tell them he had homework over Thanksgiving break, so they had to spend the evening at the kitchen table supervising him do the two math worksheets and the book report that Ian's teacher was kind enough to provide additional copies of to replace the ones Ian "lost".

But none of that is really an excuse.

The only real reason Emma can't bring herself to tell Killian is because she's not ready for Killian's reaction, and she's not ready for how her announcement might change things.

Part of her feels like things have been going really great for the past 3 months and that _this_...this might ruin it.

Because they're just...not ready. It's not the right time. Like,_ at all_. And Emma honestly doesn't know if Killian even _wants_ more kids. They've never exactly discussed it—or gotten anywhere remotely _near_ the subject.

Sometimes, she catches herself thinking about going back in time, stopping this pregnancy from happening in the first place...but even while her brain tells her it would probably be better if this baby didn't exist, her heart rebels at the thought.

Emma doesn't know who this baby is yet, but she's already in love with it, and despite how pissed she is at herself for getting pregnant while the Final Battle looms in her very near future, she can't bear to wish away the life growing inside of her, the life that's part her and part Killian, the life that's Ian and Henry's little brother or sister.

She just doesn't have it in her.

So, she's currently suffering in silence while she both wraps her mind around the fact that she and Killian are about to have a baby and tries to work up the courage to _tell_ him that they're about to have a baby.

The morning sickness has been difficult to hide, but she's managed so far; she's careful not to mention how tired she feels and she avoids the foods that trigger her nausea—unfortunately, that seems to currently be _most_ foods. Chicken and raw eggs, two foods she didn't even notice _had_ smells before, now make her vomit on sight; anything fried or buttery makes her cringe; and on Sunday night she cooked real hot chocolate on the stove for her and Ian, and the blended scents of the cocoa and the cinnamon gagged her.

Luckily Ian was watching hockey in the den and didn't witness her puking in the kitchen sink.

_Maybe its punishment_, Emma thinks, as she sits at her desk in the otherwise empty station with her face in her hands.

Maybe the baby's torturing her for not telling its dad about them yet. Maybe once she tells Killian she'll be able to keep something besides Saltines in her stomach.

_Or maybe you'll pass out from malnourishment_ _first and the doctor can tell Killian you're pregnant._

Emma sighs into her palms.

She has _not_ been eating enough these past few days. Her head hurts and her joints ache and she thinks she actually _lost_ weight since Thursday.

She knows it's not just the nausea that's twisting her up inside and killing her appetite. It's anxiety, the sheer burden of a secret that grows heavier by the minute.

_Today_, she tells herself. _I'll do it today_.

But she's been saying that for five days so she doesn't really even believe herself at this point.

Plus, Ian has hockey and then they're buying a Christmas tree and then they'll probably watch whatever Christmas movie is on TV and then it's bath time and bedtime and after that it's only a matter of a few hours before Ian has another nightmare so will Emma even have time to tell Killian that she's pregnant?

Fuck, someone needs to slap her—she'd slap _herself_ but she doesn't have the energy for it.

"Howdy!"

Emma startles and pulls her hands away from her face. Something drops onto her desk, scattering her papers, and someone drops into the chair beside her desk that's usually reserved for the criminals she's writing up or the witnesses she's interviewing.

The someone is Will, and the something is a family size bag of pretzels.

"Howdy?" she asks, ignoring, for the moment, the pretzels.

Will grins. "It's what people say here, isn't it?"

"Here meaning where? The Wild West?"

"No, I meant..._here_." He waves his hand vaguely in the air, and Emma assumes he means Storybrooke.

"This is Maine," she states dryly. "No one here says 'howdy'." She glances at the pretzels, decides she doesn't want to know yet, so instead she asks, "Where'd you pick 'howdy' up from?"

"There was a movie marathon on TV last night, all starring this bloke Clint Eastwood."

"Ah," she says, as though that explains it. She supposes it _does_ explain it; she's never actually seen a Clint Eastwood movie, and while she can't picture him saying "Howdy!" in a cutesy cowboy drawl, she imagines other people in the movie probably say it. "So, how was babysitting?"

Will was released by Emma and Killian from babysitting duty last night only to be immediately drafted into service by Robin and Regina.

"It was fine," Will says.

"How's Roland?"

"Also fine."

"Is he...how's he getting along with Regina? Any better?"

Will shrugs evasively, but it's answer enough for Emma to understand that there's been no change.

It's fitting, she thinks, that after a decade of mistreating Henry Regina's now facing a 9-year-old that's not particularly pleased with her presence in either his or his dad's life. It was surprising to see easygoing Roland give Regina the cold shoulder—the most devastating rejection Roland's sweet little soul is capable of—but it makes sense that he's having a tougher time adjusting now than he did when he was 3.

Emma told Regina to give Roland time, to be patient. She didn't say "be yourself" because she's truthfully terrified of what that would entail, so instead she advised, "Let him see that you're a good person and that you love Robin and that all you want is for the three of you to be happy together. Show him you're not a threat and that you're not trying to take his dad away from him."

That was one of three interactions Emma's had with Regina since Regina brought over apology ice cream when Ian had his allergic reaction. She tries to keep things brief with Regina, and it's worked out fairly well so far—at least, Regina hasn't reverted to hating Emma yet.

(Or remembered the real reason she ever hated Emma in the first place.)

Thinking about Henry reminds Emma of how much it sucked sending him back to Boston on Sunday even though she knows he'll be home again in 2 weeks, so to prevent her thoughts from straying down that painful path she turns to the enormous bag of Rold Gold occupying her desk.

"So, what's going on with these pretzels?" she asks.

"Oh, I brought you this too." Will lifts a hand away from his lap, revealing a paper coffee cup with a piece of string and a little paper tag dangling from the lid.

"What is that?"

"Ginger tea."

"Why?"

"Killian dropped by the ship this morning and said you weren't feeling well."

"Killian sent you?"

A flutter of fear in her chest. _Does he know?_

"No," Will says gently, as if answering her thoughts directly. "He just said he thought you might be getting sick again, and, well...yea."

He looks away and shifts in his chair.

Emma gets it: Will knows why Emma's not feeling well and he also knows that Killian _doesn't_ know why, and he cares about her enough to risk overstepping in order to ensure she's not about to drop dead.

It's a touching gesture that Emma can acknowledge even while she's still pretty annoyed at him for teaching her kid how to pickpocket.

(Despite a stern talking to on the matter, Ian continues to practice when he thinks no one's paying attention. He's not even doing it for profit, he's just doing it for fun, because whatever he takes he always leaves where the owner will find it or he returns it a smile and a, "Here, you dropped this!")

(Emma's just waiting for the day her little pirate works up the confidence to try it on her or Killian.)

She takes the cup Will offers her. "Thank you," she says quietly, and even though she hates tea she takes a sip. It's awful but it's hot, which is nice, and if she swallows quickly she only barely tastes it.

"Alice used to drink it," Will says, hesitantly. "She said it helped the nausea."

Emma takes a giant, guilt-filled swallow of tea and tries to look like she enjoys it, then she rips open the bag of Rold Gold.

"Did Alice eat pretzels too?" she asks. The pretzels taste fine, thank God. She stuffs a handful in her mouth, then washes it down with another sip of the tea—and, surprisingly, it _stays_ down.

Will smiles sheepishly. "No, Alice ate some sort of bread that Cyrus made for her. For two weeks it was the only thing she could eat. I couldn't remember what it's called but I didn't think you'd appreciate me asking around the grocery store for 'pregnancy bread'."

Emma returns his smile. "I do appreciate that, yea. And the pretzels are perfect. Thank you."

Something happens to Will when he talks about Alice. It's as if the wall he built around his heart cracks a bit every time he says her name, and through the crack escapes some light, and Will glows with it.

Emma knows what it's like to lose your family then get shuffled around from place to place until there's no one left who wants you and you're just alone. That was her life growing up, moving from group home to group home, occasional stints in foster homes that always ended horribly. She doesn't want that to happen to Will. She doesn't want him to fall to the wayside and get lost. She and Killian have to hold onto him.

"Well," Will says, slapping his thighs, "I have to go. _Someone_ is making me prep the bar all by meself today because _someone_ wants to spend the evening with his family desecrating trees."

"We're _decorating_ a tree, not desecrating it."

"Same difference, if you ask me."

Emma rolls her eyes. "We'll make it up to you."

"I take cash, checks, or credit cards."

Emma resists asking, "_Where do I swipe_?" because she knows what his answer would be.

He grins toothily at her in farewell, then stands and straightens his jacket. Before he can step away, however, Emma says, "Hey, Will?"

"Hm?"

"Did Alice have a boy or a girl?"

Will smiles, and more light seeps through. "I heard she had a girl."

Emma nods and sips her tea. She listens to Will's footsteps receding as he passes out of the office and into the lobby, and when she hears the front door open, she lets out a shaky breath.

She did some rough estimating and figured that she's around 7 or 8 weeks pregnant.

(Which means the baby is currently either the size of a blueberry or a raspberry, depending.)

Her symptoms line up with that time frame, not just with what all the websites say but with her previous experiences.

Only she thinks the morning sickness is way worse this time around. She only recalls being a tiny bit nauseous with Henry and Ian, and only ever in the actual morning as opposed to _all the fucking time_.

She's always heard that there are ways of telling if you're having a boy or a girl besides playing genital "I Spy" on an ultrasound, something about the shape and size of your belly or if you're carrying high or low, your cravings, how dark your nipples get, the baby's heart rate...

Could her ridiculous nausea be a sign that this pregnancy is different than the other two because this time she's not carrying a boy?

Totally uninvited, an image of a little girl with Killian's blue eyes and dark hair flashes across her mind. She looks more like Emma than Ian does but she's got the same smirk.

Emma shoves the thought away so hard she physically flinches.

There she goes again, letting herself daydream, letting herself pretend they're not in mortal peril, letting herself pretend this pregnancy is good news.

(She almost laughs at the memory of the way she pressed Killian's hand to her belly while he slept. She let herself feel safe, and that was a huge mistake.)

(This baby is not safe.)

She grips the edge of the desk with her free hand to keep it from falling to her belly and looks up at the clock.

It's a little after 3. In one hour she's going to go home, have a snack with Killian and Ian, and then they're going to take Ian to the rink for his 5:30 practice. Afterwards they're going into town to get a Christmas tree. Ian will go to bed at 9 because it's a school night, and when Ian's in bed Emma will tell Killian she's pregnant. The timing doesn't matter at this point, she just...she has to do it.

Her stomach flip-flops nervously, but the half pound of pretzels she's ingested miraculously stay put.

Apparently, Will was right about that ginger tea thing.

\---

Emma rehearses what she'll say to Killian the entire rest of her shift, during the drive home, while she pretends to eat the apples and peanut butter Killian prepared for the three of them to snack on, and while she and Killian are sitting in the bleachers at the rink alongside all the other parents watching their kid do more falling than actual ice skating.

Okay, _rehearsing_ is a strong word. Emma's not so much rehearsing as she is babbling incoherently in her own mind.

Her anxiety twists every scenario into a worst-case scenario, until she's imagined a thousand disappointed and angry Killians, a thousand Killians rejecting her and the baby.

Rationally, she knows it's way overdramatic and definitely not how things will play out; she knows it's just a defense mechanism, that her brain is tired and stressed and that she's been let down too many times in her life and also that she's barely come to terms with her own feelings and is therefore not at all ready to deal with Killian's feelings.

But she also can't stop the shitstorm inside her own head.

She presses close to Killian on the bench, micro-adjusting until every inch of her that can possibly touch him right now is touching him and she can feel his body heat on her skin even through all their combined layers of clothing.

"Are you cold, love?" he asks.

"I'm fine," she answers, even as she loops both of her arms around one of Killian's and hugs it tight. "How was Ian before I got home?"

"He napped for a bit but it didn't last long," Killian says quietly

"He had a nightmare while he napped?"

"Aye."

"Same thing?"

"Same thing, Swan."

_The black feather lady_.

Emma shivers, a reaction that has nothing to do with the arctic temperature of the rink.

All anyone can tell her about the Final Battle is that she's apparently part of some prophecy Rumplestiltskin told to her parents that mentions it.

_The child will find you, and the Final Battle will begin._

Not exactly a lot of information to go on there.

Emma tried pointing out multiple times that technically the prophecy doesn't mention the Black Fairy, but the other fairies insist that they have their own prophecies that identify the Black Fairy's return to power as the Final Battle—prophecies they're refusing to share.

Emma suspects their prophecies contain additional information, information that alludes to her role in the Final Battle, because otherwise there'd be no reason to keep them a secret from her or for them to be so adamant that she has a part to play, since Rumplestiltskin's prophecy only states that the Final Battle will _begin_, not that Emma has to actually fight in it.

But whatever.

It is what it is.

No matter what they know the Black Fairy's coming, and no matter what Emma knows she's going to have to fight her, whether it's this big Final Battle thing or not because she's the Savior and she has light magic, blah blah blah.

_And you're pregnant, Emma_. _Good job_.

A tremor starts in her hands and travels up her arms. Killian's heard jerks sharply in her direction when he notices her shaking, and for a moment fear pounds in her chest like a second heartbeat, but he only sloughs off his jacket and places both it and his arm around her shoulders.

\---

Fewer kids tried out for hockey than signed up for soccer. Emma thinks the cost of ice time and the cost of the equipment probably turned a lot of parents away. As it is, there are just enough players for the coaches to shuffle around into two teams every Saturday morning for a scrimmage.

It's not the same sort of experience Ian would have gotten in Boston, but it's going to have to be enough.

And honestly Emma doesn't think Ian's even aware that he's missing out on anything. He's just happy to be living his lifelong dream, zooming around the ice with an energy that contradicts the week of sleepless nights he's been having.

Practice lasts an hour, and then the shifts change, the younger kids file out, as awkward on the rubber floor mats as they are on the ice, and the older kids pile in, slightly more steady, their voices a bit deeper, louder, and more rowdy.

Emma and Killian stand to follow the flood of parents off of the bleachers and into the locker room.

The moment Emma rises a wave of dizziness hits her, an awful sensation of all the blood draining from her body. Her vision goes speckled and black around the edges and her knees buckle. She staggers, but Killian's hook catches her around the arm and keeps her upright.

"Emma?" His hand appears on her hip, steadying her further.

"I'm okay," she says automatically, blinking away the blurriness. "I just stood up too fast."

Killian's hand stays on her hip until they finish sidling along the bench and reach the stairs. Emma stays ahead of him and avoids his eyes, lest he see the lie in hers.

Ian's waiting for them in the locker room, sitting near his bag with his gloves off—the only thing he's capable of removing on his own.

"Hey, kid," she greets him. "You looked pretty good out there tonight."

Ian preens, and while Killian starts removing his helmet, Emma kneels down to untie his skates.

And nearly throws up.

The dizziness faded but nausea settled in its place. Emma swallows hard and holds her breath.

_Not here, not now_.

She forces herself to focus on loosening the knots Killian tied in Ian's laces, because _of course_ Killian tied some sort of infernal sailor's knot in his son's ice skates.

A familiar feeling of mixed amusement and annoyance fills her. It's comical because it's 100% Killian to be that stereotypically a pirate dad, but it's frustrating because she can't figure out how to undo the damned knots and she's pretty sure Killian knows this and is watching and grinning behind her back, waiting for her to ask him what the trick is.

Over her head, Ian chatters away while Killian strips him of his jersey and all his protective gear from the waist up.

"Did you see me do a slapshot?"

Emma glances up. Ian's hair is sweaty all the way through and dark gold, plastered to his skin in some places and sticking up in others.

"Aye, lad, I did. Very impressive," Killian responds, as attentive to their son as ever.

Emma's grateful for this on two levels: One, it's keeping Killian from noticing her about to puke in the hockey bag he just tossed some sweaty elbow pads into, and two, this is the guy she's about to have another kid with, this guy that relishes every moment of fatherhood.

Killian's not going to be _angry_ when she tells him she's pregnant. He'll be as scared shitless as she is, but he won't hate her and he definitely won't reject the baby—her brain needs to chill the fuck out and stop imagining otherwise.

Emma finishes unraveling Killian's knots (all by herself, thank you very much) and tugs Ian's skates off, one and then the other.

"Alright, kid," she says. "Stand up and untie your shorts."

Ian hops off the bench. "I didn't fall down as many times today either!" he proclaims proudly. "Not even when I did the slapshot."

"Oh?" Killian prompts.

"Yea! I only fell down 8 times. On Tuesday I fell down 10 times. I'm getting better!"

"It must be all that practice."

(Sarah Fisher, whose powers have flourished since it snowed on Thanksgiving, froze a portion of their backyard into a mini skating rink that Ian's practically been living on all week.)

Once Ian's padded pants are off he has to sit back down so Emma and Killian can get the socks and his shin guards off, and after that Ian peels himself out of his sweaty under-layers and trades them his balled-up shirt and jock shorts for a clean change of clothes.

Emma stuffs the damp wad of clothes into the bag, then turns to Ian.

"Is your water bottle in there?" she asks. The other day he left it on the ice and didn't realize it until they were halfway home.

"Yea," Ian says, nodding for emphasis as he tugs his t-shirt over his head.

"How about your mouth guard"

"Uh-huh."

"Is it in its case or is it just...in there?"

"Uh..."

Killian snorts, and just for that Emma decides he can be the one to fish out Ian's mouth guard later and clean it.

\---

Main Street has been transformed into a winter wonderland.

The moment the Fall Carnival came down on Sunday night the Christmas decorations went up. There are garlands of evergreen suspended above the street, every building and tree and pole is strung with lights, every door wears a wreath or a red bow, and the roofs are frosted in a layer of snow provided by Sarah.

Just down the block from Granny's and the Crow's Nest, on the side street in between the library and the Chop Shop, is a public skating rink, and the parking lot next to Gold's Pawn Shop is now a Christmas tree lot, which is where Emma, Killian, and Ian are currently headed.

There was a lengthy debate on whether their family Christmas tree should be bought now or in two weeks when Henry returns.

Emma didn't want to get it without Henry, but Ian didn't want to wait; Killian refused to offer an opinion, and in the end Henry reasoned that they always put their tree up as soon as possible and that it would be a waste of valuable tree-time if they _didn't_ get one right away.

So they're getting one tonight.

Emma's compromise—for Henry's sake—was to declare that they would put the tree up and put the lights on it, but the ornaments stay off until Henry's home.

Ian agreed readily, likely because the only reason he wants the tree in the first place is for Emma to start putting presents under it. The joke's on him though, because Emma hasn't even started her Christmas shopping yet.

They find a parking spot near Gold's but spend three whole minutes stuck in the car arguing with Ian about his hat.

_("I don't need it!"_

_"Yes, you do."_

_"Why?"_

_"Because it's cold outside and your hair's wet."_

_"But-"_

_"Ian, you're not getting out of this car without it. So either put it on or me and your dad are going to go pick out a Christmas tree without you.")_

By the time they finally make it to the Christmas tree lot, the first flakes of the winter storm that was promised are already drifting down from the sky.

"We're supposed to get a foot tonight," Killian says, tilting his face upwards.

"Yea, I heard." Emma looks up too.

It hasn't snowed all week, not since Thanksgiving when they got a full 2 inches. The storm isn't supposed to happen for another few hours, and still visible through the heavy gray clouds hanging overhead are patches of pitch black sky.

"We should probably pick a tree pretty fast," she advises. She wants to be at home in her pajamas by the time the real snow starts.

"I hope we don't have school tomorrow," Ian says, grinning savagely at the snowflakes floating in the air.

"I don't know, kid. Even if we do get a full foot, Ms. Sarah is basically a magical human snow plow. I'm pretty sure you're gonna have school."

Ian halts and frowns in contemplation. "Can Ms. Sarah make it snow _more_?"

"Probably," Emma responds slowly, already not enjoying where this is heading—she enjoys it even less when Ian doesn't reply to her statement and instead his frown deepens. Needing to divert him from whatever he's plotting, Emma gives him a gentle push towards the tree lot. "Why don't you go ahead and find us a tree?"

"Can we get a big one?" Ian asks over his shoulder.

"Sure."

"Like a _really_ big one?"

"My only requirement is that it actually fits in the house."

Ian nods and trots away, the little pom-pom on top of his hat jiggling cheerfully. Emma smiles at the sight. Ian may hate the wool ear-flap hat she bought him, but she loves it.

With Ian gone, Killian fills the gap between them, slipping his hand into hers, his skin warm but the metal of his rings cold pinpricks against her fingers.

"I didn't get a chance to ask how your day was," he says, voice low and intimate.

"It was fine," Emma huffs. "Lots of paperwork. How was yours?" Her stomach both clenches and writhes at the same time, a reminder of the secret she's carrying.

"Lots of paperwork," Killian agrees with a grin, then adds, "Oh, I saw your father today."

"Really?"

"Aye. He was at Granny's when Ian and I went there for a hot chocolate after school. He introduced us to the deputies he's training."

Emma was alone at the station all day because David had their three new deputies out on patrol, showing them the ropes. It's two men and a woman, all in their early twenties but all sharp-minded (according to their entrance exams) and eager to learn.

"Did my dad also happen to tell you he's thinking about buying a farm?" she asks.

"What? Truly?"

Emma finds herself giggling at his incredulous tone, and the jittery feeling that's been travelling upwards from her stomach towards her throat halts. "Yea."

Killian tugs her hand, forcing her to stop.

"Are you having me on, Swan?" he asks, head tilted, one eyebrow raised.

"Nope," she says.

They smile at each other. Emma's about to elaborate when she notices the tiny snowflakes caught in Killian's lashes and standing out like diamonds in his black hair. The moment suddenly feels as delicate as those snowflakes, and Emma realizes that _this is the moment_. It's unplanned and it's not perfect but that's sort of them.

The butterflies in her gut go still and before she can change her mind, before the same fear that's stopped her thus far can stop her again, Emma says, "Killian, I'm-"

"WE'RE UNDER ATTACK!"

Leroy speeds past, knocking Emma's shoulder as he does and sending her stumbling into Killian. His arms lock around her, holding her steady and shielding her as several more people sprint by, buffeting them on either side.

"Alright," Killian says. "That's a new one."

Emma turns. Everyone within sight is motionless, looking around wildly for the source of Leroy's panic, and it takes Emma a few heartbeats to spot what Killian's staring at with a gaping mouth.

Down the street, skittering towards them on spindly black legs the length of telephone poles, is a giant tarantula.

"EVIL SPIDER!" Leroy bellows, his voice growing fainter by the second. "RUN!"


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is where things start to diverge from what I originally wrote, and now that I've written it I know that starting over was the right decision, so thank you to everyone who's just sort of rolling with this mess (the mess being me).

Outside of Neverland, Killian has never encountered a spider that particularly frightened him. But then, he's never laid eyes upon a spider as large as a car and as tall as a building before, either.

The creature stalking down the street is the stuff of nightmares; hair as black as night, glistening eyes, and ropes of what Killian prays is drool dribbling from its mouth. The ground trembles with every step closer it takes, rattling the windows of shops and parked cars alike. Killian only vaguely registers the screams of the people running by, so entranced is he by the monster that seems to swallow up the entire horizon, its silhouette darker even than the trees of the forest in the distance.

"Where's Ian?"

Emma's voice shatters Killian's stupor, and he jerks to attention.

"_Bloody hell_." The curse hisses through his teeth and he looks immediately towards the Christmas tree lot. The lad's in there somewhere.

"Find him," Emma says, her face pale and her eyes large and round but her mouth set in a familiar, determined line. "I'm gonna hold off this spider."

Her hands squeeze his forearms and then she's slipping from his grasp and racing into the street, her unbound hair streaming behind her like a war flag. Killian darts the other away, into the rows of trees, shoving past anyone and everyone in his way until he finds Ian, standing between two firs.

"What's going on?" Ian asks, bewildered.

Killian scoops him up, swings him off the ground and onto his hip, and says, "Hold on tight, lad."

He remembers the night they first met, the night Killian ran from Blackbeard's men with Ian in his arms. That was 6 months ago and Ian was only a little smaller then, but Killian notes the difference now, notes that Ian's a touch heavier, his legs a tad longer—but he clings to Killian with the same trust as before.

Killian carries Ian back to the entrance of the tree lot and stops there.

Emma's in the center of the street, a boulder in the river of people fleeing the spider, which is now less than a block away, a trail of crushed cars and felled lamp posts behind it.

"Mom!" Ian gasps.

"She's alright, lad," Killian assures him, instinctively rubbing a soothing circle over what he hopes are the boy's shoulder blades (it's difficult to tell with that blasted puffy coat) and as they watch Emma raises her hands.

The street lights seem dim compared to the sparkling white light that fills Emma's palms, glowing steadily brighter until like arrows fired from a bow two bolts of light shoot from her palms and hit the spider.

The light bounces off the spider's body but it recoils and screams, a sound that makes Killian's teeth hurt and Ian clamp his hands over his ears. Without hesitation, Emma looses another blast of magic, thin and scythe-shaped, and this time it slices through flesh and the spider bleeds, a spray of black blood that steams in the cold air. Emma's palms ignite once more, and Killian, expecting a killing blow, moves swiftly to cover Ian's eyes.

Only, Emma never releases her magic.

Instead, her knees buckle and she folds forward, both of her hands jumping to her stomach.

_No!_

Terror rips through Killian, and for a heartbeat that feels as though it lasts an eternity, he wavers; if he goes to Emma he's carrying Ian into danger, but if he takes the time to get Ian to safety he's leaving Emma alone and possibly vulnerable.

A third option is setting Ian down and sending him back into the tree lot, hoping he can locate the back exit—hoping there _is_ a back exit—and then hoping he can find his way to the Jolly Roger from there.

But before Killian can decide, Emma straightens.

Another flash of white light severs one of the spider's legs.

Too late, Killian realizes his hand slipped from Ian's eyes. "Urgh," he says, his face scrunched in revulsion.

"Don't look," Killian orders, and gets his hand over Ian's eyes again—but it's pointless now, as the spider's already scrambling back the way it came, damaging more cars as it scuttles lopsidedly down the street, dripping a trail of thick black blood.

Killian waits until it's far enough away that he can no longer feel the ground shaking beneath his feet before he carries Ian into the street to join Emma. She looks drained, with a tautness around her eyes that wasn't there before.

"I think you scared it, Swan," Killian says, keeping his tone even, aware of Ian's silence and the tightness of the boy's arms around his neck.

"Yea..." Emma huffs. With visible effort, she straightens and looks at Ian. "You okay, kid?"

Ian nods silently.

"Are _you_ okay, Swan?" Killian asks, pointedly.

"I'm fine."

Her reply is unconvincing, but Killian doesn't wish to challenge her while Ian's there. Besides, he _knows_ what the issue is; he knows that for 4 nights—since Thanksgiving—they've barely slept, he knows that their days have been busy and stressful and that Ian's nightmares have brought the threat of the Black Fairy looming over them once more. They're both exhausted, and on top of everything Killian also knows that Emma hasn't been feeling well and has been trying to hide it, so "fine" is definitely something Emma Swan is _not_.

She takes a deep breath and turns back towards the spider, its hulking mass nearly out of sight. "We have to go after it," she says.

"_Someone_ needs to go after that spider, aye," Killian agrees. "But it's not going to be you, Swan."

Her eyes flash green fire, but her gaze flicks immediately from him to Ian—Ian who still has his arms locked around Killian's neck and is staring at the spider's severed leg, lying in a pool of black blood that's slowly consuming a bag of Granny's takeout that someone dropped in the street.

Emma looks where Ian's looking and her shoulders sag. "Alright, let's get Ian somewhere safe and then call my parents."

* * *

They go to the Crow's Nest, where Emma sits at the bar with Ian in her lap and Will (who was in the basement changing a kicked keg and heard precisely none of the commotion) hastily makes them hot chocolate.

David, having already received several thousand 911 calls at the station, arrives within minutes, followed promptly by Snow and an army of Merry Men that all stand at attention with the heels of their bows planted on the floor between their boots while Snow paces around and in between them with her cell phone to her ear, making whatever phone calls she has to make to put the town in emergency lockdown.

Emma should be listening, but she's honestly too tired to get involved. Ian's paying far more attention than her and just far too much attention in general, and she should probably do something about that but it's probably actually okay because how can anything he hears right now be worse than seeing a giant spider get its leg chopped off?

(And yea, it's definitely Emma's fault that that happened.)

Killian's hovering over her protectively, his chest touching her back, his hand occasionally on her arm or hip, but when the Merry Men begin filing out of the bar and David and Robin move to follow, Killian steps away from her side.

"You're going?" she asks.

"Aye, love," he says, and there's an unspoken _I have to_ there, a weary look in his eyes and the weight of duty sitting heavy upon his shoulders.

"Are you gonna kill the spider?" Ian asks.

Killian hesitates, then replies, "Aye, when we find it we'll have to kill it. It's too dangerous to leave alive."

Ian nods, as if he agrees or understands or both.

Killian leans, kisses her cheek and Ian's forehead, gives Emma a long, steady look, then turns on his heel and leaves, his cutlass hanging at his side.

Ian slips from Emma's lap and goes to the window, where he presses his face to the glass and watches until Killian, David, Robin, and the Merry Men are in their cars and driving away.

Emma watches too, until they're out of sight, then she turns to her untouched mug of hot chocolate and continues not drinking it. There's a sick feeling in her stomach that has nothing to do with how the smell of the chocolate and cinnamon is tickling the edges of her nausea. As she listens to her mom coordinate spider-leg cleanup with the dwarves, town-border patrol with Regina and the Apprentice, and snowstorm duty with Sarah Fisher, Emma begins replaying the battle with the spider in her head.

There had been a moment, right near the end, when the light slid from her grasp, slippery as a fish, and that feeling she had at the rink earlier washed over her again, the sensation of all the blood draining from her body, the world dimming around her; instinctively, as she started to fall, she cupped her stomach, to protect it.

_(I've got you_.)

And then Emma's knees stopped buckling and the darkness gathering at the edges of her vision receded. Her aim was a bit off that last time, and she only managed to get one of the spider's legs, but luckily that drove it off because if it had decided to keep coming she doesn't know if she would have been able to stop it—she had no more metaphorical gas left in the metaphorical tank.

God, she's so _stupid_.

She's fucking pregnant and she ran out in front of a gigantic spider monster like it was no big deal—she didn't even stop to consider the possibility that she couldn't handle it, or to consider the consequences of not being able to handle it and putting the baby that Killian didn't know about yet at risk.

And now Killian and her dad and the Merry Men are going after the spider. If Emma's magic barely damaged it—that first blast she sent at it bounced off like a goddamn tennis ball—what the hell are their swords and their arrows going to do?

_Fuck_.

_Fuck, fuck, fuck_.

Killian, her dad, and all the Merry Men are completely defenseless out there. If they _do_ manage to find the spider the spider's going to kill them.

The sick feeling in her stomach doubles, and she leans sharply away from the hot chocolate because now she's definitely going to throw up, and-

"Emma? What's wrong?"

Emma snaps her head up. Her mom's off the phone and standing a foot away, looking at her with concern. Emma looks around for Ian—he's still at the window, sitting on the floor on his knees with his elbows on the sill and his chin in his hands, as though he's waiting for Killian and David to return.

That only makes the panic building inside of her swell like a balloon. She looks immediately to Will, and Will understands. He sets down the glass he's drying and comes out from behind the bar.

"Hey, Ian, guess what?"

"What?" Ian mutters without taking his eyes off the street.

"I saw a Snorlax in the parking lot earlier," Will says. It takes Emma a second to realize that Snorlax is a Pokémon and that Will is talking about Pokémon GO.

"Really?" Ian turns his head to frown at Will.

"Pretty sure, aye. Wanna go check it out?"

Ian regards Will for a long moment before he hops to his feet and takes the hand Will's offering him. Will's phone is out and in his other hand, because of course Will downloaded Pokémon GO to his phone just for Ian.

"Are you _sure_ it's a Snorlax?" Ian asks skeptically, as Will leads him towards the back of the bar.

"I think I know what a Snorlax looks like, mate."

"What did it look like then?"

"Big, fat bloke. Sorta greenish and sleeping."

Emma waits until Ian and Will are out the back door and she can no longer hear their voices before turning to her mom.

"I have to go," she says.

Snow's head jerks back on her neck in surprise. "What?"

"I did something really stupid and now I have to go," Emma clarifies. She gets off the stool and starts pulling on her coat.

"I don't understand," Snow says, moving a step to the right, directly in between Emma and the door. "Where are you going?"

"I have to go after them. They need my help."

"Who? Killian and your father?"

"Yea."

Where are her gloves? She thought she put them in her pockets but she can't find them. Did she drop them? She rotates slowly in place until she spots them lying on the floor beneath her stool; she stoops and snatches them up, then yanks them on.

"Emma, you look like you're about to collapse. You need to sit down and rest. Your father and Killian and the Merry Men are fine."

But Emma just shakes her head and tugs at her jacket cuffs. Her mom's wrong. Killian and her dad aren't fine. They're in danger; that spider isn't what they think it is. They're totally outmatched.

"Emma." Snow says firmly, grabbing Emma's forearms and forcing her to stop. "What's going on?"

Emma looks up at her mom, at the intensity of her gaze, the concern and confusion there, and says, "I'm pregnant."

It's really not what she intended to say, but it's what comes out of her mouth nonetheless—and it's almost comical how effortlessly those words left her lips after a full five days of trying and failing to say them to Killian.

Snow's eyes widen and her mouth falls open. "Oh my God," she breathes, and Emma's first thought is that her mom is disappointed, but then Snow rushes forward and before Emma can defend herself her mom engulfs her in a bone-crushing hug that manages to not squish her belly and gushes, "Emma, that's so wonderful! How far along are you?"

"I...I don't know."

Snow freezes and steps back, her hands resting light as two feathers on Emma's shoulders, a crease between her brows. "You don't know?"

"No. I just found out on Thanksgiving."

"Does Killian know?"

"I haven't told him yet."

_And that's why I need to go_.

Snow's hands slide gently from Emma's shoulders to her cheeks. "Why haven't you told him?"

Emma squeezes her eyes shut. "It's...it's not a good time. Everything's crazy right now, and this is just...I don't know how this is going to change things."

"Oh, _Emma_."

One of Snow's thumbs strokes lightly over Emma's cheek, and her throat burns suddenly. "I tried to tell him," she says, swallowing hard, forcing the tears back down. "Right before the spider attacked." She takes a deep breath and shakes her head again, shaking off her mom's hands. "They're going to get themselves killed. My magic barely hurt that thing. I have to go. Watch Ian for me."

Emma breaks for the door but her mom sidesteps smoothly into her path. "I'm coming with."

Emma blinks. "Really?" She expected her mom to try and keep her from leaving, to tell her she's pregnant and needs to rest and sit this one out to keep the baby safe.

"Yes," Snow answers. "I'm driving. My bow's in the trunk, and you need a few minutes of rest. Are you going to be warm enough?"

"Yes," Emma lies, thinking longingly of the parka in her closet that covers her thighs that she's now desperately wishing she'd worn instead of the (fleece-lined but still not very warm) red leather jacket.

Snow nods. "Then talk to Will and let's go."

* * *

David's truck leads a small caravan of cars into the woods. The rendezvous point is a back road that Killian doesn't recognize in a part of the forest he's certain he's never been to, which is incredibly annoying—the only thing that should be vast and unfathomable is the sea; a bunch of cursed trees should _not_ make Killian feel small, and yet that's how he's felt nearly every time he's been in these woods.

They leave the cars parked in the road with several of those electric lanterns propped on their hoods to help guide them back, and two Merry Men to guard the area—a teenager called Midge and a man with a crooked nose and mismatched eyes that Killian's heard referred to as both Wat and Dick.

Another of the Merry Men (Gilbert Whitehand, who, as Will described, has a very mean face but quite feminine hands) waits for them at the edge of the trees, where the spider's trail begins: long gouges through the layer of snow and rotting leaves on the ground, broken tree limbs and bushes ripped out by the root, and pools of its black blood.

"You're saying a _spider_ did this?" Robin asks, grimacing at one such puddle as they begin their search grid, Killian, David, Robin, and twelve or so Merry Men walking in a long, straight line into the woods.

"You're not afraid of spiders, are you?" David teases.

"I'm afraid of the spider that did _this_," Robin retorts, jerking his chin towards a tree split jaggedly in half. "That's hardly the work of your average house spider."

"I can assure you it was quite large," Killian says.

"I wouldn't exactly call that 'assurance', mate, but thanks."

Conversation ceases as they step deeper into the forest, where the light from the electric lanterns doesn't reach and the undergrowth is more dense and requires a good deal more squinting to navigate.

Fortunately the trees are bare, and, although the sky is partially clouded over, the moon is near full, providing a serviceable semi-darkness punctuated intermittently by stretches of silver light during which the forest appears almost magical in its thin cloak of fresh snow.

They walk in silence for a long time, heads bowed, snow gathering in their hair and in their collars. Killian keeps an eye on the flakes, watching for changes in intensity; the heart of the storm s not yet upon them, but it's fast approaching. His toes have just gone numb when Robin speaks and breaks the silence.

"Where do you reckon the spider came from, anyway?" he asks. "I mean, it couldn't have been here the whole time otherwise my men would have noticed it by now."

"I don't know," David says. Out of the corner of his eye, Killian sees David's head swivel towards him. "Could it have something to do with the Black Fairy?"

"You think the Black Fairy has a pet spider?" Robin says. His tone is light, but beneath it Killian hears the strain of tension, of real, true fear.

"Let's hope not," Killian says, scowling into the darkness.

David veers closer, until his arm is brushing Killian's. "Is Ian still having nightmares?" he asks in a low voice.

"Aye," Killian answers, just as quietly, slowing his steps until they're a pace behind the rest of line, affording them a small pocket of privacy.

"Have you talked to the Apprentice about them?"

Killian sighs. "We did."

The morning after Thanksgiving they pounded on the Apprentice's door until he answered in his pajamas and a rumpled housecoat and Sarah Fisher's voice in the background asking who was at the door.

"What did he say?"

"He said the Black Fairy made a connection with Ian through his dreams while she was trapped in that urn and that Ian's dreams now are a result of that connection."

"Is she...do you think she's actually _in_ his dreams?"

_"Little Ian's safe for now. Although I did thoroughly enjoy playing with him in his dreams. I'll have to thank him for that."_

Those words and the twisted smile the Black Fairy said them with have been weighing heavily on Killian's mind for five days. "The Apprentice couldn't give us an answer to that," he says. "We asked if there's a spell or a potion that could help Ian sleep and keep him from dreaming but he told us it's too dangerous as Ian's too you-"

Movement from up ahead stills his tongue. One of the scouts Robin sent ahead is returning, and as he draws nearer Killian realizes it's young Alec.

The man nods to Killian and David before turning to Robin. "The trail continues for another half mile and then stops," he reports.

"Stops?" Robin asks. "What do you mean it stops?"

"I mean the spider reached a clearing and in that clearing its tracks stop."

"Are you certain?"

"Aye. My father's headed out a bit further to see if the trail picks up anywhere else. Follow me and I'll show you."

They break formation and follow Alec at a jog. Killian's grateful David's ahead of him, for every stumble and grunt the man makes alerts Killian to obstacles he would not have been able to see on his own—he's also grateful that he and David still spar nearly every morning, for otherwise he'd be breathing far more heavily than he is by the time they reach their destination.

Alec halts in a small clearing, and they all grind to a halt behind him. The spider's trail does indeed stop there—there are no patches of blood or marks in the snow within sight past what's visible at their feet.

"Where the devil did it go?" Killian wonders aloud, scanning the snow beyond the circle of trees they're standing in.

"It couldn't have just disappeared," Robin says. "Could it?"

"If it's truly a creature of that witch the Black Fairy then perhaps it has its own magic," Alec says grimly.

Nobody responds.

David, hands on his hips, lets out a frustrated sigh.

"What do we do?" Robin asks him.

"Well, we either have to keep searching until we find that spider or we go back to town and set up a perimeter—the only problem with that is that there are plenty of farms and a lot of isolated estates that we don't have the manpower to protect."

"We could round up everyone who lives outside the town center and bring them in," Robin suggests. "Or we could-"

From above comes an immense groaning and crackling. Once, when he was a lad, Killian heard a tree falling in the woods, and the sound is similar to that, only when he looks up it's not a tree that he sees dropping from the sky, but an enormous black mass with eight very long legs.

"EVERYBODY MOVE!" David shouts.

The group scatters instantly, seeking cover.

Killian follows David into the trees. He doesn't see the spider land, but he _feels_ it—the ground heaves suddenly beneath his feet and he stumbles to one knee, skidding in the snow until he regains his feet and dives behind a particularly wide tree; he runs headlong into David, who steadies him with a hand on his arm until he straightens.

"You alright?"

"I'm fine," Killian pants. "Where's everyone else?"

"I don't know," David mutters.

Carefully, they lean out from around the tree.

The spider is still in the clearing, surrounded by Merry Men on all sides, also hiding behind trees. To the left Killian sees one man shimmying _up_ a tree, and to the right Alec's already in the branches of an oak, bow nocked and aimed.

From somewhere in the darkness, Robin bellows. A volley of arrows is loosed, every single one hitting its mark, and every single one bouncing off the spider like a bunch of toothpicks thrown at a brick wall.

_Bloody hell_.

"I think we may be in trouble," Killian growls.

"Me too," David admits.

Killian draws his cutlass. "How do you want to do this, mate?"

"I'll go for one of its legs and you cover me."

"How about _I_ go for one of its legs and _you_ cover _me_?" Killian counters. When David shoots him a glare, Killian adds, "I'm a bit more agile than you, mate; I thought our sessions together have made that quite clear."

David rolls his eyes, but he draws his own sword and says, "Fine. I'm following you."

If Killian starts thinking, he'll realize what a horrible idea this is, so without hesitation he steps out from behind the tree, adjusts his numb-fingered grip on his cutlass, and charges.

Adrenaline tears through him like fire. He can't feel how leaden his legs are or the awful stiffness in his joints, all he feels is that fire, the thrill of an imminent fight, excitement and terror roaring to life in his chest like twin infernos.

He sprints through the trees, gaining the spider's rear, and darts in to strike.

He meant to hamstring the spider on the fly and then for his momentum to carry him right out of the spider's reach, but his cutlass hits the spider's leg and then rebounds jarringly, sending a reverberation up Killian's arm and into his shoulder that spins him around. He manages to both keep his feet and notice that his sword barely penetrated the spider's leg before it whirls and lashes out.

He raises his cutlass but David's already there. His sword catches the leg the spider swings at Killian and bats it to the side, but another leg replaces it and knocks David to the ground.

Killian ducks beneath a third leg and rushes to David's side. The Merry Men race back into the clearing, surrounding David and Killian and shielding them, shouting and brandishing daggers and belt knives.

"We need to move!" Killian yells, reaching his hook out. David grabs hold of it and Killian wrenches him to his feet, but as soon as David's standing, he, Killian, and the Merry Men are knocked down like bowling pins by what feels like a giant, invisible fist.

Killian hits the snow hard and rolls reflexively to his hands and knees. "What the-?"

"STAY DOWN!"

Emma's voice slices the air, and with an audible _whoosh_ a disc of white light soars over their heads and cuts through the spider. A spew of black blood splatters the snow and Killian recoils, throwing his arm over his face to protect his eyes; when he lowers it Emma's in the clearing, standing over them with her fists clenched. Just behind her is her mother, longbow in hand.

"You saved us, love," Killian says. He smiles, and her gaze hardens, a strange blend of anger and disappointment creasing her brow and pulling her mouth into a long, thin line.

"Where's the spider?" David asks.

"It ran off," Robin replies. "Emma got it good though—look."

Killian glances at the thick trail of fresh black blood leading into the trees, then looks back at Emma and keeps his eyes on her while he climbs slowly to his feet. He tries to step towards her, but she turns away and folds her arms over her stomach.

"We should go after it," she says.

"No," Killian barks, drawing her glare and Robin's raised eyebrows. "We need to go back. We've been out here long enough."

Now that the adrenaline's run its course, he can feel every ache and pain, every frozen bit of flesh. He's long since lost feeling in his ears, and he's not even certain he _has _toes anymore; he can tolerate the cold fairly well, but he's just as susceptible to frostbite as the next man, and while Emma's leather jacket is fleece-lined, her jeans are thin and she's not wearing a hat, so she's likely just as frozen as Killian is—assuming she walked through the woods to find them, which, judging by the snow gathered in her and her mother's hair, she did.

"Killian's right," David concedes. "We don't have much longer before the storm moves in, and I don't think we should be wandering around the woods when it does."

"It's pointless to keep searching if we're about to lose our visibility," Robin chimes in. "My men are good, but even they would have difficulty tracking their way through a snowstorm. We should turn back now before we lose our own trail."

"It's too dangerous, Swan," Killian adds. "The sooner we can get out of these woods, the better. We can return in the morning when it's light out and we've all had some rest."

What the two of them need is an evening on the sofa with a warm blanket and a hot drink and a certain 6-year-old nestled between them—and all they're likely to get if they remain in the woods (if they're lucky enough not to run into the spider again) is a case of hypothermia.

"What do you say, love?" Killian wheedles. "Shall we go home?"

Without answering, Emma turns on her heel and stalks away.

"Where are you going?" he splutters, startled.

"Back to the car," she snarls over her shoulder.

David gives Killian a look but Killian shakes his head—no, he can't explain; he has no idea either—and sprints to catch up with Emma. Behind him, he hears Snow chide, "David, no. Give them a minute."

Killian reaches Emma's side but she neither acknowledges him nor slows down. He trudges through the snow at her heels for several excruciating minutes until he's regained his breath enough to plead, "Emma, please love, slow down."

Speaking requires a massive effort, as his entire face is half-numb and extremely stiff.

"Emma!" he gasps.

"What?" She halts and spins to face him. There are tears on her cheeks that send a shock like a lightning bolt through him. "What do you want?" she spits.

The woods are silent around them, save for their breathing and the pounding of Killian's heart in his chest.

"Why are you angry with me?" he asks. He can't fathom the fury in her voice or the terror in her eyes.

"I'm angry because you almost got yourself killed!"

She tries to turn away from him again but Killian lunges forward, hooks her elbow, and spins her back around to face him.

"You're lying," he states.

"What?" she gapes at him.

"I said you're lying: you're not angry with me because I almost got myself killed. You're upset because of something else. What is it?"

He stares, one eyebrow raised, daring her to refute his claim.

She doesn't.

"This isn't the time, Killian," she seethes. "There's a crisis right now, and-"

"There is _always_ a crisis, Swan. That's not an excuse." He slips his hook from around her elbow and returns it to his side. "Now, tell me what's going on. Are you just worried about the Black Fairy and that spider or is there something else on your mind?"

She masks her surprise quickly, but Killian sees it anyway.

"Does this have something to do with what you were going to tell me earlier?" he murmurs.

_Killian, I'm-_

She had looked happy, eyes bright, snowflakes melting on her cheeks. Anticipation had swelled hard and fast in Killian's chest, and now a knot of it is still lodged beneath his ribs, awaiting release.

"Emma, whatever it is...you can tell me. You can tell me anything."

Her lips part and she sucks in a quick breath that sounds like a sob. She looks at him pleadingly, and, shakily, her hands lift to her stomach.

Something clicks in Killian's brain, something that makes the knot beneath his ribs squeeze tighter.

Emma's been sick. She's been tired. She's been moody.

Emma is...

She's...

"I'm pregnant," Emma whispers, her words as quiet and insubstantial as the mist her breath conjures.

"How?" Killian stutters, the first stupid thought that rises to the front of his absolutely useless brain.

Emma snorts and his cheeks heat, the first true warmth he's felt in hours.

"I mean, I know _how_," he says. "I only meant..."

_How did we let this happen?_

The answer is obvious: a lot of sex and not enough birth control. Isn't that how it happened the first time? He didn't put the pieces together before because he didn't think...he didn't think _this_ could happen.

But it did, apparently, and now...

_And now what do we do?_

Killian opens his mouth but no words come out. Emma presses her lips together, and that's when Killian notices they're blue.

"Emma, you're freezing."

"I'm fine." She shakes her head, but it's as if that small movement ruptures whatever tenuous hold she had on her self control, and suddenly her whole body's trembling.

Killian has his jacket off and around her shoulders in an instant. He tries to pull it closed over her chest and arms but she's wilting in place and it's all Killian can do to keep her upright.

"I don't feel so good," she mutters.

What astonishes Killian the most is how fast it happens: one moment she's shivering and the next she's collapsing. He almost doesn't catch her before she hits the ground, but he manages, losing his own footing in the process and falling hard to his knees in the snow.

Her forehead hits his shoulder and then lolls sideways, completely loose on her neck.

"Emma? EMMA!"

The terror Killian felt earlier watching her face down the spider is nothing compared to the mix of panic, horror, and dread he feels now. His blood turns to acid in his veins, burning him from the inside out and making the cold feel sharp as knives against his exposed skin.

"Fuck. _Fuck_," he rumbles as he levers himself back to his feet with Emma in his arms, slipping and sliding and pulling what feels like several very important muscles, all mostly in the groin area.

He regains his feet and then starts staggering in what he prays is the correct direction, bellowing for David at the top of his lungs. He has no clue if anyone will hear him, no clue how far away the rest of the group is, but he has to try anyway.

"HELP!" he yells, over and over as he plows blindly through the snow—snow that's suddenly falling hard and fast. "HELP!"

Her weight drags at him, threatening to pull him once more to the ground, but Killian grips her tighter with fingers he can no longer feel and runs as rapidly as his legs can carry him.

He tries not to notice how very gray Emma's skin has gone.

He tries not to wonder if she's breathing or not.

He tries not to remember holding Liam as Liam gasped for air, or Milah's limp body slipping to the deck of the Jolly Roger.

He focuses instead on the frantic beating of his heart, hammering his ribcage to the beat of the words she whispered to him.

_I'm pregnant, I'm pregnant, I'm pregnant_.

Just when his voice goes hoarse and he can shout no longer, just when he's certain he's been travelling in the wrong direction all along, David appears out of the snowstorm, Robin and Snow on his heels.

"_Help me_," Killian begs.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your wonderfully supportive messages concerning the reboot of this fic! This definitely feels like the story I wanted to tell from the beginning and I'm thrilled to finally be writing it! This chapter and the next 1-2 chapters are still using a lot of recycled/reworked material from the original, so apologies if it feels a little repetitive right now.

Emma regains consciousness slowly, floating hazily towards the surface of herself like a deep sea diver ascending from the ocean floor. As she rises, her memories return in flickers and bursts.

Ian asked if they could get a big tree. There was snow in Killian's hair. Emma was about to tell him that she's pregnant, and then...

Leroy's loud mouth. A big fucking spider.

She fought the spider with her magic, drove it off. Killian and her dad went after it, and then Emma went after them. Then there was the forest, trudging through ankle deep snow with her mom beside her, David on the ground in a clearing, Killian helping him up, the spider hovering over them.

She'd been worried about Killian until she saw him, and then she'd just been angry—not at Killian, at herself: if she had just told him already that she's pregnant then he probably wouldn't have ended up in the woods about to be eaten by Paul Bunyan's pet tarantula.

Killian followed her when she fled, because of course he did, and when he stopped her and confronted her and she saw in his eyes that maybe he wasn't as oblivious to how she'd been behaving as she thought he was and she was finally able to say the words that had been sitting on the tip of her tongue since Thanksgiving.

_"I'm pregnant."_

The weight of that secret was even more massive than she thought, but once she was out from under it she felt lighter, as if she would drift away.

Relief started a tremble in the pit of her stomach—only the trembling became quaking and spread to arms and legs she couldn't completely feel anymore.

_"Emma, you're freezing."_

_"I'm fine."_

That's the last thing she remembers.

Emma opens her eyes. Above her is a nondescript white ceiling that her brain nevertheless recognizes as the hospital's ceiling. 

Which means she must have passed out.

In front of Killian and her parents and the Merry Men. 

_Great_, she thinks.

This is just what she needs—more people to worry about her and more reason for the people who are already worrying about her to worry more.

Emma tries to locate all her body parts in order to start moving them in the direction of the closest exit—maybe if she gets outta here fast enough it'll be like she was never here at all—but there's something heavy and extremely warm on top of her and her limbs feel like literal pieces of spaghetti.

"Killian."

The voice startles her sluggish thoughts into frantic motion. The fog clears and her surroundings snap sharply into focus.

She's lying in bed beneath a pile of thick blankets. David's in the doorway, cradling an armful of chips bags and soda cans; he's staring at her—and did he just call her Killian?

But then there's movement out of the corner of her eye, and Killian lifts his head from where it was bent over their joined hands, his forehead resting against her knuckles.

"_Swan_," he breathes. There's a rough, hoarse edge to his voice, and when he smiles it's ragged.

A spike of fear pieces her chest, and she tries again to sit up. The blankets are heavy and Killian's hand and hook on her shoulders are even heavier; he stood up so fast he knocked his chair over, but despite feeling physically like one of Ian's homework papers—crumpled up and smashed on the bottom of his backpack—Emma manages to get her elbows planted firmly on the mattress before Killian can push her back down onto it.

"Killian," she says with a glare.

"You need to rest and stay warm, love."

"I can do both of those things sitting up," she counters.

"We should wait to hear what the doctor says before you exert yourself."

"Sitting up isn't exerting myself. I'm fine."

There's crinkling from the doorway as David dumps his load of snacks onto a vacant chair.

"I'll go get Whale," he says, then he disappears and it's just Emma, Killian, and the minutes before Whale arrives ticking away likes a doomsday countdown.

Emma pushes against Killian's hand and hook, but Killian doesn't budge.

"You may not remember this, Swan," he says, his voice a growl, "but you passed out from hypothermia because you were too stubborn to admit how tired and cold you were. Your father and I had to carry you. You're lucky we made it to the car in time."

There's heat in his voice now, and it sparks an answering flame in her own gut.

"Sitting up's not gonna kill me, Killian," she seethes.

He cringes and steps back, jerking away from her as if electrocuted.

Confused, Emma wiggles herself into a sitting position and reaches for him. "Hey," she says gently. "Are you okay?"

"Am _I_ okay?" he chokes out, eyes blazing. "Swan, you almost...I thought-"

He's interrupted by Whale's brisk entry, the click of his jaw as he slams it shut audible over the tapping of Whale's polished shoes on the linoleum.

_Motherfucker_.

Does the man really have nothing better to do than lurk in corners of the hospital that are far too close to her room? Or, better yet, aren't there any _other_ doctors in this godforsaken place? Doctors less immediately available and maybe also less smug?

"You're awake," Whale says brightly. "How do you feel?"

"Like crap," Emma replies. Her entire body aches, and just sitting up required far too much energy—sheer stubbornness is the only thing keeping her from burrowing back into her blanket cocoon.

Whale nods like he expected her answer and flips through some papers on his clipboard. "I put a rush on the blood work but the results haven't come back yet. Are you experiencing any abdominal cramping or back pain?"

"No." Her stomach feels like a massive black hole that's slowly sucking in all of her other internal organs, but Emma's pretty sure that's because she hasn't eaten since those pretzels Will brought her.

"Good, good," Whale mutters, nodding again. "As of right now it looks like everyone's okay, but since you're awake I'd like to perform an ultrasound to be on the safe side."

"An ultrasound," Emma repeats dumbly.

"Yes. An ultrasound." Whale looks up and darts a glance at Killian. "I was told you're pregnant."

"I am pregnant."

_I'm pregnant and this is becoming a lot more real far too quickly._

"You were hypothermic and lost consciousness," Whale continues slowly, brow furrowed. "You should get an ultrasound to make sure the baby's okay. Do you know how far along you are?"

"I think around 8 weeks."

There's a soft inhalation from Killian. Emma can feel his eyes on her but she can't bring herself to look at him. Her dad's standing just behind Whale and she's not ready for _his_ reaction either so she picks a pen in the breast pocket of Whale's lab coat, stares at it, and focuses on what she remembers reading about the 8th week of pregnancy on the week-by-week blog she broke down and peeked at the other day.

_During week 8 of your pregnancy, baby is as big as a raspberry and weighs about .04 ounces._

Her baby's as big as a raspberry, with tiny arms and legs and only slightly webbed fingers and toes. It's technically still an embryo, though next week it will officially be a fetus.

(A fetus the size of a cherry that weighs the same as two paperclips.)

(That feels so ridiculously delicate.)

"Have you had an ultrasound yet?" Whale asks.

"No."

"Then it's probably time. The technician is gone for the evening, but I know there's a nurse or two on the premises that can use the machine—unless you'd prefer me to do it, that is."

Emma does not want _Whale_ on the operating end of any instrument (medical or otherwise) that has to be inserted into her vagina; before she can decide on the most polite way to express that, Killian rumbles, "Someone else."

Which means he was very likely busy Googling ultrasounds while she was unconscious.

Which _also_ means he was probably sitting here worrying about the baby for several hours, a baby he only just found out about.

Which explains why his hand is a fist and that fist is shaking.

His whole body is shaking, actually.

Emma drags her gaze away from Whale's green pen and says, "Do you—can you two give us a minute?"

Whale tucks his clipboard under his arm readily but David, eyes on Killian, hesitates.

"Dad," Emma says firmly.

David frowns, mouth hard but with an uncertain crease between his brows. "I'll be right outside if you need me," he tells her. He leaves the room first, followed by Whale ("I'll have a nurse fetch you when they're ready for your ultrasound."), and the moment they're gone Killian rounds on her and bursts, "8 weeks? _8 weeks_, Swan?"

"Okay, slow down. I didn't know the whole time."

Which was really the wrong way to put it.

"How long _have _you known?" he hisses through clenched teeth.

"Since Thanksgiving."

"That was nearly a week ago! Why am I just finding out now?"

He's mad. And that's fine. Emma deserves it.

"Emma," Killian demands, because she still hasn't answered. "Why didn't you tell me earlier?"

"Because I didn't know _how_ to tell you," she admits.

_I was ashamed of how careless I was_.

_I'm afraid of how this will change things._

_The Black Fairy's coming and I don't know how to keep this baby safe from her_.

"I _tried_ to tell you," she says. "Right before the spider. Remember?"

_Killian, I'm-_

His cheeks, pink with anger, suddenly go pale. "Emma, you _knew_ you were pregnant and you stood in front of that spider—you nearly froze to death out in the woods." His brows pinch. "You could have _died_ tonight, Swan—the _baby_ could have died."

"She's _fine_, Killian," Emma retorts.

"I—Emma, what did you just say?"

"I said we're fine." She _has_ been pregnant before, and she didn't exactly spend the 8 months she carried Ian sitting on her ass—does he really expect her to stand idly by and do nothing when her loved ones are in danger just because she's pregnant?

"No, you said 'she'. _She's_ fine." His expression changes, hope stealing into his eyes like a curtain parted to let a shaft of sunlight into a dark room. "It's a girl?" he whispers.

"Maybe. I don't know. It's too early to tell. I just have a feeling."

Her hands find her stomach. Killian tracks her movements. He stares at the fingers she folds over her belly, then his face crumples and he sits heavily, his entire body slumping forward as if it's trying to fold in on itself.

"How did we let this happen?" he says, almost to himself.

"I don't know," Emma sighs. It's an automatic response, and not a truthful one. She _knows_ how it happened: an October sex marathon and some sloppy birth control.

On both their parts.

Which is why it feels really, really good to hear him say _we_. How did _we_ let this happen?

She was blaming herself before. Sure, it might take _two_ people to make a baby, but as the person in possession of the body capable of becoming pregnant she thought herself a bit more responsible for ensuring it didn't accidentally become pregnant.

(Not that she's ever really proven herself responsible in that regard, if her two previous accidental pregnancies are any sort of proof.)

Killian bows his head, his chin nearly resting on his own chest. "Why didn't you tell me?" he asks again.

Her laced fingers tighten on each other, and it's an effort not to drop her gaze. "Because I'm still not 100% sure how I feel about it," she says honestly. "And we've never exactly talked about the possibility of this ever happening, so I didn't know how you'd feel about it either."

He lifts his head, eyes finding hers.

"You thought I wouldn't want it?"

"I thought maybe you'd be as freaked out about the bad timing as I was, and I am..._really_ freaked out."

Killian closes his eyes. Emma thinks he's still angry, or maybe just disappointed, but then he leans forward and lays his head in her lap, his temple resting lightly against her belly, his hand sliding around to the small of her back and fisting in her hospital gown.

All the anxious voices inside of Emma go quiet. She unfolds her hands and cups Killian's head to her stomach, her fingers threading through his dark hair.

"What do we do?" he murmurs.

"I don't know. There isn't exactly a handbook for protecting your unborn child from the Black Fairy."

His jaw clenches and his eyes open, a storm in them. "Emma, I'm going to do everything I can to protect this baby from the Black Fairy and whatever else may threaten it, but I can't do it alone, and I can't do it if you continue to put her in harm's way as carelessly as you did today."

His words hurt, but they're fair. Emma _was_ careless, and she's lucky something worse than a bit of hypothermia didn't happen.

Hiding from this Final Battle thing isn't an option, but Emma's going to have to be a little less reckless than usual if she doesn't want to lose everything.

Still, that's a ways away yet (hopefully), and right now it's just her and Killian and the little raspberry-sized life they created together, so for a moment Emma forgets about the Black Fairy, she forgets that this wasn't planned and that she and Killian have barely been together 6 months and that a baby is going to change things, she just swallows past the lump in her throat and says, "Her, huh?"

Killian's eyes widen, as if he didn't even realize what he said.

Emma smiles, and strokes her fingers through his hair. "Well, boy or girl, this kid's lucky to have you as its dad."

"And you as its mother, Swan." He raises his head, but his hand replaces it, settling gently over the warm spot on her belly. "We're in this together, you and I."

"I know."

God, she wants to kiss him, to apologize, to heal the wound she made between them—but they're interrupted, by two nurses and a hovering David in the doorway.

"Emma Swan?" asks one of the nurses.

"Yea?" Emma says.

"We're ready for you upstairs."

\---

"Is...is that...?"

The words whisper out of Killian's mouth on the same wondering breath he releases when the grainy gray blobs on the monitor finally solidify, when the ultrasound wand that's poking around in Emma's vagina finds its mark and the black-and-white TV interpretation of a lava lamp they've been watching becomes a still image of a black circle with a tiny, bean-shaped globule floating at its center.

"Yep, that's your baby," says the nurse, a youngish woman with round, dimpled cheeks and hazel eyes. She's polite and cheerful and gentle with the transducer, and even if she wasn't it wouldn't matter because the only thing that matters to Emma is that she's not Whale.

Killian's lips part, then close as he swallows, then part once more; his eyes flicker from the monitor to Emma's stomach and back, his brows contracting then separating and twitching upwards in increments until they're at his hairline.

Emma wants to laugh but her breath is currently caught somewhere in her chest, smothered beneath the jumble of emotions that's making her heart flutter and her lungs feel both tight and floaty at the same time.

Everything suddenly feels very, very real.

Not that it didn't _already_ feel real. Now it's just...

She wasn't prepared for this at all—the whole sharing it with someone part. The part where she's witnessing the reaction of the other person responsible for the jelly bean wiggling on the monitor.

And yea, it's wiggling, and the flickering spot is its heartbeat, and the nurse is pointing out its body parts now, its head and arms and legs, and Killian leans closer until the fact that Emma's lying on an examination table in between him and the ultrasound machine physically stops him. He stares at the screen for what feels like several eternities, his chest touching her ribs, pressing against their joined hands.

_Poor guy_, she thinks. _This_ _thing just went from 0 to 100 for him real quick_.

But then he grins at her.

"It looks like a bean, love," he says. "A little magic bean."

Emma looks back at the monitor and realizes he's right.

"Little Bean," Killian coos, and this time Emma knows he's talking to the baby.

\---

The nurse sends them away with discharge papers, the sonogram, and a due date.

"July 31st," Emma says, as she changes out of the hospital gown and back into her clothes. "Another summer baby."

And another summer pregnancy.

Maine is neither as hot as Arizona nor as humid as Boston though, so maybe it won't be too bad. Plus—standing beside a window outside of which a snowstorm still rages—summertime feels a very long way away, so having a stomach that's swollen to the size of a basketball and sweat pouring from every nook and cranny is a problem for future Emma.

(Present Emma has enough to worry about as it is.)

"Ian will have to share his birthday," Killian muses.

"He might die if we tell him that."

Killian frowns at her. "You think he'll be upset about the baby?"

"I think the _idea_ of having a little brother or sister and the _reality_ of sharing our attention with a baby are two different things. It's gonna be a tough adjustment for him, just like it was for Henry."

"And how do you think Henry will feel about it?"

"I don't know," Emma confesses. 

"Certainly he's old enough to understand that we're not replacing him?"

"Yea, but he might feel left out, like we're moving on without him—or like we're creating a _new_ family now and he's not part of it."

"Oh," Killian says.

"Right," Emma huffs. But all that's another problem for her future self. Henry won't be home from school for another week and a half, and Emma's not telling Ian until she's told Henry, so she has at least 10 days before the load of other people's emotions she feels responsible for triples in size.

After Emma's dressed, they leave.

David drives them back to the house in the pickup truck. He was definitely eavesdropping on Emma and Killian's conversation in the hospital, but what he heard apparently reassured him because he's no longer looking at Killian like he's not sure whether he wants to hug him or stab him.

He _is_ looking at Emma though, long glances full of questions that Emma's grateful he keeps to himself because she's just...too tired and too overwhelmed; that morning she still hadn't told Killian yet and now, less than 12 hours later, she has a sonogram in her pocket and the baby has a nickname.

It's a lot.

Emma's going to need time to sleep and to process and to work up the courage to look her dad in the face knowing that the "pancakes" that he, Henry, and Ian interrupted back in October both followed and was followed by one of the vigorous lovemaking sessions that very well may have gotten her pregnant.

And just thinking about _that_ makes Emma's cheeks warm, so she turns her attention to the window for the remainder of the drive.

In spite of the snow, the roads are totally clear—some trick of Sarah's, Emma guesses. At the house they find Snow asleep with Ian in Ian's bed. David gently shakes her awake and takes her to the car, then runs back into the house after Snow's settled in the pickup to sweep Emma into a hug and whisper, "Congratulations," into her hair.

"Thanks, dad," Emma says, squeezing him back tightly.

He cups her head and kisses her temple before pulling away, then his gaze slips to the side, to where Killian stands nearby, and he nods. Killian nods in return, something heavy passing between them, something communicated through steely eyes and a press of lips.

"What was that about?" Emma asks, when she and Killian are in their bedroom putting on their pajamas. "That look you and my dad gave each other?"

"We almost watched you die tonight, Emma," Killian says quietly, wrenching the black Northeastern t-shirt he sleeps in over his head. "Neither of us feel as though we did a good job protecting you."

"I don't need protection," Emma mumbles, tugging lethargically at the drawstrings of her flannel pants.

Killian's silence indicates he disagrees but isn't willing to argue. Instead, he busies himself preparing the bed, pulling back the covers and arranging the pillows, piling Emma's side with the two extra blankets she likes to sleep with. And then suddenly he's behind her, his arms around her waist, his chin on her shoulder.

Tentatively, his hand slides beneath her shirt to touch her belly. "Tell me this isn't a dream, Swan," he whispers.

His skin is warm against hers, the calluses on his palm and fingers rough but not unpleasant. Emma covers Killian's hand with both of hers, pressing it more firmly to her abdomen. She's not quite _showing _yet, but there's a definite roundness there that's tangible.

"This is real, Killian."

Killian turns his head, burying his face against her neck, and Emma feels his entire body tense.

"I don't want to lose you, Emma."

"You're not gonna lose me," Emma murmurs. "I'm not going anywhere. And neither is this baby." She strokes a thumb over his knuckles. "It'll be okay. We're gonna be okay."

His fingertips flex, and his body relaxes, softens into hers as he exhales, his breath ghosting over her collarbones.

"I love you."

She rests her cheek against his hair. "I love you too."

He holds her for a long moment, and Emma loses herself in the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, then he lifts his head away and says, "I'm going to get Ian."

"Is he sleeping with us?" Emma asks, amused. Lately they haven't even bothered _pretending_ they believe Ian will stay in his own bed all night.

"He's sleeping with _you_, Swan. He's going to keep you warm."

\---

Emma falls asleep with Ian, Roger, and One-Eyed Jim in her arms, and Killian against her back.

All the worries that kept her awake at night for the past five days are still there, but they seem distant, muffled as if by layers of fabric or a wall of snow. They'll be closer again in the morning, and louder, but for now she's safe.

She keeps her eyes open for as long as she can, watching the storm outside the bedroom window, and when she finally closes them and surrenders to sleep, the feeling of Killian's hand on her belly follows her into her dreams.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It feels like Thanksgiving was a year ago already (ugh). I think this is mostly the end of material from the original, so from the next chapter onwards everything will pretty much be 100% new!

For the second night in a row since the night in the woods, Killian sleeps fitfully, his slumber plagued by nightmares.

In his dreams he relives his flight through the snow with Emma unconscious in his arms, and he wakes from those dreams with a start several times, a century's worth of instincts the only thing preventing him from thrashing and thereby sending Emma hurtling to the floor.

On each occasion it takes him a moment to recognize the weight and warmth against his chest as Emma, and to remember that they're at home in their bed and not still out in the forest.

Slowly he relaxes, slowly he allows his eyes to close once more, slowly he drifts back to sleep, only to find himself once again in the woods, carrying Emma and slogging through snow that climbs higher up his body with every step until it's at his waist and he can barely move.

The final time he dreams, Emma's no longer in his arms. She's giving birth in the snow, staining the white ground red with her blood, and then Killian's carrying a different bundle, a smaller one. The dream changes, and it's David holding the bundle and Killian kneeling over Emma's body...

He jolts awake—eliciting a mumbled protest from Emma—and holds still, his brain swiftly adjusting to wakefulness as it registers the prickly pain of ten little fingernails biting into his flesh. Ian's there, standing beside the bed with Killian's bicep in a death grip.

They stare at each other in the dark for a moment, and then, voice quivering, Ian whispers, "_Dad_."

"It's alright, lad. You're alright," Killian murmurs, sitting up slowly and easing himself out from beneath the covers.

He should let Ian into his and Emma's bed as he usually does, but frankly he's not interested in returning to his nightmares—and he imagines Ian isn't either—so he takes Ian by the hand and walks him back down the nearly pitch black hallway towards his room.

"Do you want to tell me what you dreamt about?" Killian asks quietly.

He feels Ian shake his head more than he sees it, a violent vibration up his arm and a tightening of Ian's fingers on his own.

"How about I read you a story then?" he suggests. Killian would much rather a drink to settle his nerves, but rum won't help Ian.

"Okay," Ian replies, his voice barely audible over his shuffling footsteps.

"We can read one of your new Christmas books. Perhaps the one about that cookie fellow."

"_The Gingerbread Man_," Ian corrects—with exasperation, which is what Killian was going for.

While Ian selects a book from his bookshelf, Killian turns on the bedside lamp, presses a fingertip to the side of Ruby's fishbowl (which Ruby glares at), and then rearranges the rumpled bedclothes before settling on the mattress with his back against the headboard. Ian climbs onto the bed beside him and dumps _Gingerbread Baby_, two Amelia Bedelia books, and _Creepy Carrots!_ into his lap.

Killian smiles in amusement at Ian's eclectic taste as Ian tucks himself beneath Killian's hook arm and props Roger beneath his chin. "Which one am I reading first?" he asks.

"Amelia," Ian says. He has his knees drawn up and his bare feet slid in between Killian's thigh and the mattress.

His bare, _icy_ feet.

Normally, Ian runs as hot as Killian—that afternoon, for example, he kicked off his snow boots and revealed that he'd been playing outside for a full hour with absolutely no socks on; Emma immediately started panicking about frost bite but Ian's feet were barely below their normal temperature.

"Do you feel alright?" Killian asks, ducking his head to press his cheek to Ian's brow.

"M'okay."

"Are you certain? Your feet are freezing."

Ian shrugs and wiggles his toes.

Killian sighs inwardly. "Get under the blanket," he orders, snatching up the comforter and dragging it over Ian's flannel-clad legs; for good measure, he also grabs the fleece blanket from the end of the bed and lays it over the comforter. "Better?"

"Yea."

"Alright, which one did you say I'm reading first?"

"Amelia."

Killian resettles his arm around Ian and starts reading. Ian makes it through _Play Ball, Amelia Bedelia _and _Merry Christmas,_ _Amelia Bedelia_ but falls asleep during _Gingerbread Baby_; Killian continues reading anyway, hoping his voice makes it into the boy's dreams and helps keep the Black Fairy away.

He doesn't remember falling asleep himself, but it's morning when Emma wakes him.

"What time is it?" he grumbles, squinting at the bedroom window. It's sunrise, the wintry blue sky tinged with gold along the horizon. Ian is still asleep, now with most of his limbs and possibly a stuffed crab wedged somehow_ underneath_ Killian, and his face pressed to Killian's ribs.

"It's a little after 7," Emma says. One of her hands is resting on his wrist and her thumb is tracing tickly circles along his skin. "How come you're not in bed?"

"I didn't want to wake you, Swan. You need your rest."

He knows he doesn't have to explain that Ian had another nightmare and that the piles of books that are miraculously still in his lap were his attempt to help lull Ian back into a more peaceful slumber.

Emma smiles at him, her eyes a pale jade in the pale morning light. "You could have read in our room. I wouldn't have minded."

Killian shakes his head. "Your sleep is important," he says. "You need at least 7 hours of it a night."

Her lips quirk. "Did you read that on one of your baby blogs?"

"Aye, I did."

Yesterday, whilst Ian was at school and Emma slept and Killian was left alone with his thoughts, reality started to sink in, and the reality is that regardless of their lives having finally just seemed to settle, everything's about to change.

Killian's going to be a father—again, and yet also for the first time.

A month ago, when Belle asked Killian if he and Emma thought they'd have any more kids, despite how her question flustered him, Killian knew immediately that he wanted it. He wants to have more children with Emma; he wants to see her with a babe on her hip, a tiny cherub that clings to her hair the way Ian did as an infant; he wants to hold a babe in his own arms, sing it to sleep and feel its tiny fist wrapped around his finger.

But this is not how he wants it to have happened.

It should have happened when they were ready for it, after they discussed it and planned for it and after a month or two of very purposeful lovemaking. The announcement that a new little life was growing inside of Emma should have been a joyful occasion, but instead Killian felt only shock, dread, and terror.

He's as much to blame for the situation as Emma is. He should have put a condom on all those times she allowed him to enter her without one—it's not as if they're not living with a 6-year-old reminder of what happens when they have unprotected sex.

But as horrible as Killian feels, he doesn't regret it, just as he doesn't and could never regret Ian.

Ian was a complete accident, one that's transformed Killian's life for the better.

Before Ian, Killian believed he was neither capable nor deserving of fatherhood. He'd never truly even _considered_ the possibility of having children save to acknowledge that, given both his history and his less-than-ideal father-figure, he probably _shouldn't_ reproduce.

(Which his why Killian spent nearly his entire adult life being obsessively cautious with his seed.)

But Ian changed all that.

Ian taught Killian how to be a father, and although Killian has no clue how to be a father to an infant, he felt the subtle roundness of Emma's belly beneath his hand, felt the evidence of what their love created, of the being that's part his blood and part Emma's growing inside of her, and he already loves it fiercely.

And so, he started researching—anything and everything related to pregnancy and childbirth.

"According to 'The Bump'," Killian says, ignoring Emma's grin, "if you don't sleep 7 or more hours every night then your chances of either a C-section or a lengthy labor are increased. I'm no pregnancy expert, but neither of those scenarios sound particularly appealing."

"No, they don't," Emma agrees. Her eyes fall to Ian then and she reaches out to brush a lock of golden hair off of his temple. "Why don't you get him up and I'll go make you guys some breakfast."

"I'll make breakfast, love. What would you like?"

Another one of the websites Killian read (and bookmarked) advised that breakfast during pregnancy should consist of foods rich in fiber, protein, calcium, and iron. From his experience with ingredients labels, he knows that that means fresh fruit, yogurt, eggs (cooked to prevent salmonella, of course), whole-grain bread, and oatmeal.

But Emma's shaking her head. "Don't bother making anything for me. Just get some cereal or something ready for Ian. I can't eat right now."

"Emma, you _have_ to eat. You barely ate anything yesterday."

Emma, her body recovering from the ordeal it went through on Tuesday, slept most of Wednesday away; Killian tried to bring her food whenever she woke up, but all she ate was a few crackers and some dry toast.

"I know I _have_ to eat," Emma says, eyelids fluttering in what Killian assumes is an attempt not to roll them. "The problem is I _can't_ eat. Everything makes me throw up."

"Is it the babe?"

"Yea. Your little bean's making me nauseous. Apparently it doesn't actually like food."

"Emma, is that—is it _normal_?"

"Yes and no." Emma lays her hand over his and gives his fingers a reassuring squeeze. "Morning sickness is normal but I've never had it this bad before—I'd blame it on _your_ genes but Ian didn't make me this nauseous."

"You have to eat something, Swan," Killian says, a bit helplessly. He can't sit idly by and watch her waste away. He _won't_. "What can I do?"

Emma's thumb strokes his knuckles, and then she sighs. "Can you get me some pretzels?"

\---

Killian scours the kitchen, but it turns out that not only do they not have pretzels, they have precisely _none_ of the food a pregnant woman requires, so after they shuffle a groggy and very grumpy Ian off to school, they drive to the grocery store.

There, Killian buries his nose in his phone and follows Emma up and down the aisles; she pushes the cart with one hand and keeps her other hand on his hook, using it to steer him smoothly away from the shelves whenever he wanders too close. Killian, following a mental map of the store, looks up from his phone occasionally, always just in time to grab whatever he needs down from the shelf and toss it into the cart before returning his attention to the five tabs he has open on his phone's Google browser.

"Bread," he mumbles to himself, cross-checking the list he's reading against the items in their cart. "Pretzels. Crackers. Cheerios. How do you feel about green olives?"

"No," Emma replies.

"'No' isn't a feeling, love."

"Oh, it definitely is."

"Well, it says here that the tannins in green olives help alleviate nausea."

"I don't know what a tannin is but I don't like green olives."

"How about cheese? This website suggests eating cheese sticks."

"Ergh."

"'Ergh' is also not a feeling."

"It is, and you'd understand if you'd ever eaten a cheese stick."

Killian hasn't, but Ian loves them—which suggests that they are in fact as disgusting as Emma says they are.

"Yogurt?" he says. "I've seen you eat yogurt before, Swan."

"I could do yogurt."

"And bananas?"

"Sure."

Killian pauses again, thumb stilling on his phone's screen as what feels like a tidal wave swells in his chest. He has to clench the muscles in his shoulders to keep the tremble that rises up from his stomach from vibrating down his arms.

"What's wrong?" Emma asks.

"You're supposed to be eating all the things on this list—sweet potatoes, salmon, eggs—all to help the baby develop healthily, only how can either you or the baby be healthy if everything makes you nauseous?" he rumbles.

He's gesturing with the hand he's holding his phone in and Emma grabs his arm just as the phone case glances off a jar of pickles—which he glares at, because obviously it moved on purpose.

"The morning sickness won't last forever," Emma soothes, pulling him safely away from the pickles. "And I didn't eat salmon or sweet potatoes while I was pregnant with Ian and as far as I can tell he turned out fine."

"I know, Swan. It's just..."

It's just that Killian wasn't there for her when she was pregnant with Ian, and he thought he'd come to terms with it but apparently he hasn't; it's just that he didn't protect Emma or the babe (regardless of not knowing it existed), and he feels as if he failed them.

Emma takes his phone gently from his hand and scrolls down the list. After a minute, she snorts. "Okay, I didn't eat any of these things during either of my pregnancies."

She tucks his phone into her pocket, then guides his hand and hook to the cart handle and gives him a little shove down the aisle.

"I don't know who makes these lists," she says, "but I can pretty much guarantee nothing bad's gonna happen to me or the bean if I don't eat a legume."

Killian takes two wooden steps forward and then stops, smirking suddenly.

Emma halts beside him, eyes narrowed at his smirk. "What?" she demands.

"Beans are legumes, Swan."

She rolls her eyes and gives him another push forward. "Alright, I'm seriously starting to worry this baby is just gonna end up being named 'Bean'."

"We can name it 'Legume' if you prefer," he says, grinning at her over his shoulder.

She grins back, and the tidal wave in Killian's chest recedes. His improved mood lasts all the way into the parking lot, where Emma receives a phone call while Killian's loading the groceries into the car.

"It's my dad," she tells him, before she puts the phone to her ear and says, "Hello?"

Killian watches her out of the corner of his eye as he transfers the paper bags from the cart to the trunk, his good humor deflating rapidly as Emma's brow knits and her lips pull slowly into a frown.

After a long minute, she exhales deeply. "Alright. See you in a bit."

"What is it, love?" Killian asks warily.

Emma stows her phone and folds her arms over her chest. "He said there's something in the woods we need to see."

"Right now?"

"Right now."

Emma's eyeing him as though she expects him to object, and it makes sense given everything that happened on Tuesday.

"Are you feeling up to it, Swan?"

She shrugs. "Not really, but I still want to go check it out. My dad wouldn't call if it wasn't important."

Killian _was_ sort of hoping she would just say 'no' so he had an excuse to bundle her off to the house, feed her, and fold her back into bed, but he knows she's right: David wouldn't contact them if the matter didn't require their (Emma's) attention, and he wouldn't request their (Emma's) presence if it was anything but perfectly safe.

"Will you at least eat something before we go?" he says.

Emma smiles at him, her relief plain. "Do you have those pretzels?"

Killian reaches into one of the bags and pulls out a family size bag of pretzels. "They're all yours, love. I'll drive. You relax."

* * *

The woods look like the sort of snowy forest scene you'd find on a Christmas card; all that's missing is a little cottage or a spider-drawn sleigh.

Emma blinks and gives herself a shake.

Horse-drawn sleigh. She meant _horse_-drawn sleigh—and yet the image of a sleek black sled pulled by a team of massive spiders is parading around inside her head so vibrantly it feels like a recent memory. Was she sleeping? A glance over at Killian and his wink confirm that she definitely dozed off, so the spider-drawn sleigh must have been a dream.

"What did I miss?" she asks, straightening in her seat, and trying to focus on reality and not on the sound her brain thinks spider legs would make in snow. As casually as she can she surveys the entirety of the surrounding woods, just to assure herself that there _isn't_ actually a spider-drawn sleigh out there somewhere.

"You didn't miss anything, love," Killian says. "You were only asleep for a few minutes."

"Mm," she responds with a frown; she didn't intend to fall asleep, but now the only thing her body wants is to sleep some more, possibly for the rest of the day and maybe even into Friday. A heaviness tugs at her edges, and she knows that if she closed her eyes she'd be asleep again in an instant. She's not sure if it's because her stomach's full for what feels like the first time in a week, or because she's still recovering from the hypothermia.

Killian shifts his hook to the center of the steering wheel and reaches over to brush his fingers against her leg.

"Do you feel okay?" he asks with concern.

"I'm pregnant, so no," she replies dryly. "I'm not going to feel 'okay' again for at least another 6 months."

Probably even longer, if you take into consideration everything her body will go through _after_ the baby's born. She sort of forgot about all that, and, honestly, it might end up being a good thing that this pregnancy was an accident because she doesn't know if she would have volunteered to go through all of this again. Not at her age.

But she has Killian this time—Killian who's looking at her with visibly increasing concern.

"I'm just tired," she explains quickly, patting his hand. "Growing a baby is hard work—it probably says that somewhere on one of those websites you've been reading."

Killian's lips twitch. "Sleep some more then, Swan. I'll drive slower."

"No, don't," she says. "I'll sleep when we get home."

"Did you eat enough? Shall I pull over and get you something else from the back? Some yogurt, perhaps? Or a banana?"

It's sort of precious, the way he's fussing over her. Normally it might be annoying, but Emma's too weary to be annoyed and honestly Killian deserves a few days of being anxious and overprotective anyway.

"I'm fine," she insists. And she is. Because she ate literally half the bag of pretzels and they're sitting blessedly still and solid in her stomach. "I think we're almost there anyway."

Up ahead, her dad's pickup is a rust-colored speck on the road, and as Emma and Killian draw closer they see that he's standing beside the truck, waiting for them.

Emma stashes the bag of pretzels in the glove compartment atop the pile of Chinese takeout menus she keeps in there (what she wouldn't give for some sesame chicken and an egg roll right now—an absurd thought given her current inability to ingest anything more exciting than a Saltine cracker) and brushes the embarrassing amount of crumbs off her lap just as Killian pulls the SUV up behind David's pickup; Killian barely has the car in park before David's at Emma's door, pulling it open for her and helping her out with a hand underneath her elbow.

"Where's everyone else?" Emma asks; they're alone in the road, but parked in front of David's pickup are the Apprentice's decrepit Volvo, Regina's black Benz, and two cars that she thinks are some sort of communal vehicles the Merry Men share (one has a baby seat in the back so Emma's pretty sure that that one's either Alec's or like 80% Alec's).

"They went ahead," David says. He's wearing thick woolen gloves and a worried expression not unlike Killian's. "You sure you're okay to do this?"

"Yes," she replies, hunching her shoulders to suppress a shiver—somehow it's colder in the woods than it was in town, though she's prepared for the weather this time with her black parka.

(She has no idea how the hell Killian's fine with just his leather jacket.)

David leads them off the road and into the woods. They follow a path of beaten-down snow that Emma suspects Sarah created; it's as firm and smooth as concrete, wide enough for Emma and Killian to walk side-by-side, and doesn't tire Emma's legs out as much as a hike through calf-deep snow would have.

Eventually the others come into view, standing together in a loose circle in a small clearing. Everyone turns as Emma, Killian, and David join the group. Robin and the Merry Men—dressed in whites and grays instead of their usual browns and greens—look especially surprised to see her.

"I'm fine," Emma says, before anyone tries to ask. "Now, can someone please tell me what I'm supposed to be looking at?"

Robin's the first to respond. "This," he says, then holds his hand out palm up and tilts his face towards the sky.

Emma looks up as well, and sees miniscule snowflakes drifting lazily from the treetops.

"Snow?" she asks. She didn't notice it was snowing while they were walking. Did it just start? And what the hell is so special about some snow that Emma had to come all the way out here to look at it?

"It's not snow, Emma," Sarah says. She's dressed all in crisp white and not nearly in enough layers. "Take a closer look."

Emma reaches out and catches one of the flakes on her fingertips. It's neither cold nor wet, and when she presses it with her thumb it leaves a dusty smear on her skin.

"Ash?"

"Seems so, love," Killian growls, brushing vigorously at several grey streaks on his jacket sleeve.

"But where's it coming from?"

The sky overhead is clear and the treetops don't look scorched; as far as Emma can tell, the ash isn't originating from anywhere, it just _is_.

"It's a byproduct," says the Apprentice. Standing next to Sarah in his baggy jeans and a puffy red coat that's as beat-up as his old Volvo, he looks extra shabby and a little bit homeless.

"A byproduct of what, exactly?" Killian asks.

"Of contact with the Dark Realm."

Emma drops her hand back to her side, fingers curling into a fist. "What?"

"A portal was opened here," the Apprentice says. "A portal to the Dark Realm."

A cold spot appears in Emma's stomach that has nothing to do with the temperature. "The spider," she whispers. Deep down she sort of knew, but part of her was holding on to hope that the spider was an aberration, just some monster that wandered into Storybrooke of its own accord.

Killian steps closer, his hand finding the small of her back even as his eyes never leave the Apprentice. "The spider came from the Dark Realm?"

"And then returned to it," the Apprentice confirms. He raises an arm and opens his hand to reveal a handful of charcoal, and adds, "Opening the portal created these as well."

Emma looks at the lumps the Apprentice is holding and remembers the strange purple embers the Black Fairy left behind in the mines. At the Apprentice's feet is the hole he apparently dug through the snow to find them.

David recognizes the embers too. "Does that mean the spider was sent by the Black Fairy?" he asks.

"I'm afraid so," the Apprentice responds. "The Black Fairy is the only being capable of opening such a portal."

"Why send the spider?" Killian asks. "Why not just attack us directly—or send _more_ spiders, for that matter?"

The Apprentice frowns. "I suspect the portal the Black Fairy escaped through cost her dearly. It seems she's recovered enough to open another portal, but perhaps she's still too weak to travel herself."

"Or perhaps the spider was a scout," Killian suggests.

"That's the likeliest option," the Apprentice agrees. "And I think we should expect there to be more on the way."

"More spiders?"

"More creatures from the Dark Realm acting as scouts and spies. She'll want to know as much about this realm and the people in it as possible before she makes her move."

"And what exactly is her move?" Emma asks. "What does she want?"

"What she always wants," the Apprentice says. "To conquer this world and feed its magic to the Dark Realm."

That's only partly the answer Emma was expecting. "_Feed _the Dark Realm? How do you feed a place?"

"Or is it not a place?" Killian says.

The Apprentice smiles ruefully. "It is and it isn't. No one knows much about the Dark Realm; we only know that it's very old—possibly one of the oldest things in existence—but that it's dying. It feeds on the resources of other realms to survive. When Merlin trapped the Black Fairy he hoped the Dark Realm would wither and die."

"But it didn't."

"No, it didn't, and now it desperately needs to feed. The Black Fairy will drain Storybrooke's magic before setting her sights on another realm, very likely the Enchanted Forest." The Apprentice looks at Emma. "Merlin was barely able to trap her in that urn. If _we_ don't stop her here and now...I fear _all_ the magical realms will fall."

Slowly, the head of every person in the clearing turns towards Emma.

For some reason, it doesn't bother her; for some reason it's easier now knowing what the Black Fairy wants, knowing that it's just some classic villain shit.

Emma can deal with that. Emma can _fight_ that.

"Looks like we're gonna have to stop her then," she says.

"She's not getting past us," David says, and Emma knows his words are for her, that he's reminding her that they're in this together, that she won't face the Black fairy alone.

All around the clearing, there are nods of agreement. Killian's hand slides around her waist. Emma feels it clench in the fabric at her hip, gripping hard, and she leans into him.

Pregnant or not, it's her responsibility to protect this town and the people in it from the Black Fairy—not because of some prophecy, but because she has the power to do it and because she might be the _only_ one with the power to do it.

"So, what do we do?" she asks.

* * *

They spend the afternoon strategizing at the loft.

The Apprentice is insistent that there's no definite way to stop the Black Fairy from opening portals, but believes that the town proper can be warded against dark magic—which may or may not end up preventing portals from being opened within its boundaries but will, at the very least, avert any more dark creature attacks like the one on Tuesday.

The ward, naturally, requires light magic, which means Emma.

Fortunately, the ward also requires preparation on the Apprentice's part (research, gathering of certain magically significant materials), so Emma has until Monday to regain her strength,

In the meantime, David places sentries in high places all around the town to keep an eye on the woods, just in case another giant spider decides to crawl out of it.

When it's time to pick Ian up from school Killian and Emma leave the loft. Killian drops Emma, Ian, and the groceries at the house and then goes to the bar to prep for the evening so that Will and Smee can have a bit of a break before their third night in a row of running things by themselves.

When Killian returns to the house to pick Ian up for hockey practice he discovers Emma asleep on the couch and Ian waiting in the hall, sitting on top of his equipment bag with his coat and boots on.

Killian closes the front door as quietly as he can and whispers, "How long has she been sleeping for?"

"A while," Ian whispers back.

"Did you eat something?"

Ian nods.

Killian doesn't dare ask _what _he ate, he merely gestures for Ian to stand up and lifts the boy's equipment bag onto his shoulder. "Is your water bottle in here?"

"Yes."

"You didn't fill it up, did you?"

"No."

"Do you have socks on?"

"Yup."

"Okay. Grab your stick," he says.

Ian trots silently to the door and picks his hockey stick up from where its lying on the mat amidst the jumble of their shoes. Killian checks once to make sure Emma looks comfortable and is covered by a blanket, then shoos Ian out the front door.

On the porch, Ian turns to him and asks, "Is mom okay?"

"Aye, lad, she's okay. She got a little sick from being out in the woods the other night, but she'll recover. She just needs to rest."

Ian continues to stare up at him, his big blue eyes not quite disbelieving and yet not completely reassured, so Killian shifts the hockey bag from his hand to his hook then reaches out to slip his arm around Ian's shoulders and tug him into a hug.

"I promise you she's okay," Killian says firmly, reaching around Ian's shoulders a bit more to brush his fingers against the boy's cheek. "When we come home we'll make her a nice big pot of chicken noodle soup and put on her favorite movie, okay?"

Ian nods against his hip. Killian releases him and follows him down the stairs and through the front gate to the car.

At the rink, Killian sits by himself in the stands and lets his thoughts wander back to the conversation at the loft.

It's almost a relief for this to be happening, to finally be _doing_ something as opposed to just waiting around. The anticipation is over, the wondering, the worrying, and as anxious as Killian is for whatever the Black Fairy has in store for them, he knows the sooner she arrives the sooner they can dispose of her and go about their lives, and Killian's _very_ eager to return to normalcy, to focus on Emma and their baby and their little boy that's about to be a big brother.

Killian shifts his attention to the ice. He can see Ian's grin from his perch at the top of the stands, a grin the boy wears all the way home and into the house, where Emma's awake and waiting for them with a kitchen table full of Chinese takeout.

"Don't ask," she says, in response to the eyebrow Killian cocks at her. "I had a...craving."

Her cheeks flush a bit, the liveliest she's looked all day, and Killian can't help striding across the floor and sweeping her into his arms.

Emma grunts a bit as he pulls her tightly against his chest, then gasps softly when his lips find hers; he can't remember the last time he kissed her and that's rubbish really because he should be kissing her all the time.

"Easy, tiger," Emma cautions against his lips, snaking one hand in between them and planting it firmly against his chest. "We have an audience."

Ian's standing behind one of the kitchen chairs with his hands resting along the back and his chin propped on his knuckles, watching them with a scrutinizing expression that gives Killian a start because he's seen it before—in the mirror.

"Aren't you gonna get sick now, too?" Ian asks.

"Not with what your mother has, no," Killian says.

Emma elbows him in the ribs and steps away. "Alright," she says to Ian. "You know the drill: hockey bag in the laundry room and everything out of it—and I mean _everything_."

\---

After dinner and after Ian showers they cram onto the couch together and watch _The Year Without a Santa Claus_, because it's on TV and Emma says, "Ooh, I used to love this one when I was a kid."

Ian announces he's going to bed at 8:45, which is both suspiciously early and suspiciously autonomous of him, so Killian checks on him at 9 and finds him in bed but with the covers pulled over his head and his flashlight on; guessing the boy's either revising his Christmas list for the billionth time or reading some comic book of Henry's that he's not supposed to have, Killian leaves him be and goes back downstairs.

Emma's curled up on the couch in the den where he left her. She lifts the blanket for him so he can join her underneath, then snuggles into his side as soon as he's settled.

Killian lays his arm around her shoulders and rests his cheek on her hair. "How do you feel?"

"Pretty good, actually," she says.

"Nauseas at all?"

"Nope."

"Good. Shall we continue watching?"

"Yea. _Santa Claus is Comin' to Town_ is on next."

"Is that another one from your childhood?"

"Yep."

As the movie begins playing, Killian sees Emma's hand drift slowly to her throat, where the constellation necklace he bought her for her birthday rests, and just as he's realizing that they'll need to add another chain to it rather sooner than he imagined, she asks, "If the baby's born on July 31st does that mean it'll be a Cancer too?"

"No, that would make the baby a Leo, like Henry—unless it's born two weeks early. _Then_ it'd be a Cancer."

"Well, Ian was three weeks early, so maybe."

"Was he?"

"Yea. I never told you?"

"No."

"I was in the middle of a perfectly good burger, planning all the things Henry and I were going to do during the last few weeks before the baby arrived, when my water broke."

"Were you at home?"

"No, we were at a Tasty Burger. The manager was _not_ happy. I never went back again—which sucked because I really liked Tasty Burger."

"Well, hopefully _this_ baby won't ruin any restaurants for you."

"Yea, I don't know what I'd do if I got banned from Granny's."

Killian chuckles and turns his head to kiss her hair.

It feels good to be talking about the baby as if everything's normal—it's one of the few times they have so far. Killian's not truly ready for this, but he doesn't have a choice. Neither of them do. If the True Love's Kiss they shared in Neverland means anything, he hopes it means they have the strength to get through this, to bring this baby safely into the world and give it a happy home to grow up in—and even if it's not written in the stars, Killian's going to fight for it anyway.

_We're going to protect you, little one_, he vows. _Your mother and I won't let anything bad happen to you._


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!!! I hope everyone had a wonderful holiday season. This chapter is pretty much a fluffy little interlude, a chance for Emma and Killian to catch their breath a bit before we plunge onwards. I was hoping to have finished this before I left for Greece two weeks ago but that didn't happen so it's a bit late and I thank you for your patience; the next chapter won't be so much of a wait, I promise :)

Emma's awoken at the butt-crack of dawn on Saturday morning by a stampede in her bedroom.

"IT'S FINISHED!" Ian bellows, from somewhere far too close to Emma's ear.

She pulls her head out of her pillow with a jerk. "Huh?"

"It's finished," Ian explains, in quieter tones. He drops onto his knees beside the bed so his face is on level with Emma's. "I finished it."

"Finished what?" she asks.

"My Christmas list!" Ian leans closer, his breath telling her both that he hasn't brushed his teeth yet and that he's definitely eaten a candy cane or two very recently—meaning her secret candy cache has been discovered and needs to be relocated.

"I thought you finished your list two weeks ago?" she says. She distinctly remembers being presented with a "list" days before Thanksgiving that consisted of a wad of mismatched papers stapled together, each item upon it written alternately in red and green marker.

"This is the one for _Santa_."

"Oh."

Assured that there's no emergency or immediate need for her to get out of bed, Emma lays her head back down and closes her eyes. She can feel Killian next to her. He's either asleep or pretending to be asleep; she doesn't remember him getting home from work last night, so it must have been later than usual.

"We have to mail it _today_," Ian insists.

"We will," Emma mumbles.

"Can we mail it now?"

"We'll mail it later."

_After I've gotten out of bed and figured out how nauseas I'm going to be today. _

She didn't feel sick at all on Friday, which is suspicious and she's not trusting it.

"Will it get to the North Pole on time?"

"Well, it's only December 5th, so probably."

"It's the 7th."

"Hm?"

"Today's December 7th."

Emma opens her eyes. "Is it really?"

"Yea."

_Crap_. She just slept for like 3 whole days.

Which is what her body needed, actually, even if it feels totally weird to have ditched work for half a week.

And Ian's still staring at her from inches away, his eyes so large and round that Emma can see the miniscule golden flecks that surround his pupils.

"Alright," she sighs. "Go downstairs and find an envelope. We can mail it on the way to hockey."

He hops to his feet and tears from the room. Emma closes her eyes again, hoping it takes Ian at least 10 minutes to find the envelopes.

Killian rolls onto his side and then shifts until he's snuggled tightly against her back with his arm draped over her waist and his face in her hair. "So is this Santa bloke real?" he asks, voice gravelly, his breathing deep and slow and sleepy.

"I don't think so," Emma says. At least, the Tooth Fairy's apparently not real, because the only money that showed up beneath Ian's pillow when he lost two teeth to the monkey bars was the 5 dollar bill she put there herself.

"Mm," Killian hums. "Well, if Santa is real, I'd like to meet him."

"You mean you'd like to interrogate him," Emma corrects.

Killian chuckles. "Aye, Swan, you've caught me. I don't fancy the idea of any man—jolly or not—breaking into our house while we sleep."

"I think Ian would disagree."

"_Hmph_. Truthfully, I think the fact that Santa brings gifts for children makes him even more suspect."

Emma smiles. Trust Killian to be mistrustful of goddamn Santa Claus.

"Oh, speaking of Santa," she says. "My mom said there's going to be a Santa Claus taking photos with kids at town hall next week."

"Now the man wants to take _photos_ with children?" Killian scoffs.

"More like the other way around. It's sort of a tradition to get your kid's picture taken with the Santa at the mall every year." And Emma doesn't care how "too old for it" Henry thinks he is, he's getting in that picture with Ian. It's their last Santa photo with just the two of them. Next year there will be a third...

From downstairs, Emma hears a shout of triumph, followed immediately by the sound of footsteps racing swiftly up the stairs.

Killian groans. "You couldn't have hidden those envelopes somewhere harder for him to find?"

"Uh, they're just envelopes, so no. And secondly, bold of you to assume he wouldn't have found them anyway."

Emma doesn't know which of them Ian gets it from (probably both of them, honestly) but he's incredibly good at finding things he's not supposed to. She might have to hide all his Christmas presents on the Jolly Roger this year.

"What do you think it would take to convince him to let us sleep for another hour?" she asks.

"Very likely a price I'm not willing to pay."

Ian bursts into the room then, his list in one hand and an envelope in the other, and vaults onto the bed; Emma braces herself but he manages to land mostly on Killian, who traps him in a bear hug and rolls him away from Emma. Killian growls, and Ian starts giggling what Emma recognizes as tickle-induced laughs. She smiles and turns her face deeper into her pillow, the sound of Ian and Killian laughing more soothing her back to sleep.

* * *

They arrive at the rink a little late. Emma fell asleep again and Killian tried to let her rest, but he accidentally let her sleep too long and then Ian couldn't find his stick (it was underneath the couch in the basement) and then they had to stop at the mailbox a few blocks from their house so Ian could mail the envelope he addressed to the North Pole and decorated with stickers (none of which Killian thinks is an actual stamp).

Emma told Killian that the post office would probably burn the envelope, and although it appears likely that Santa isn't actually real and therefore can't receive Ian's list, it broke Killian's heart to learn that it would just be disposed of, so he volunteered to deliver the envelope and instead of dropping it into the mailbox he slipped it up his sleeve.

At the rink, Killian sends Emma to the stands to join her parents, Will, and Sarah while he shuffles Ian into the locker room to get dressed.

He's become fairly efficient at getting Ian's equipment on—with whatever degree of assistance Ian chooses to provide—and he has the boy geared up in less than eight minutes. He's in the midst of mentally congratulating himself for setting a new personal record when one of the coaches enters the locker room and informs him that Ian's supposed to be in white for the game, not red, so Killian has to wrestle Ian's red jersey off over his helmet, pull on the white one, locate one of his gloves which fell off sometime during the switch and rolled away, and then swap the socks (over the skates, of course, because Killian already went through the ordeal of tightening them).

"Are you excited?" Killian asks in a low voice as he collects Ian's clothing from where Ian distributed it all over the floor and transfers it into the equipment bag where it won't get lost or be trampled.

"Uh-huh!" Ian says.

"How many goals are you going to score?"

"Five!" Ian proclaims, and grins at Killian through the cage of his helmet—which is when Killian realizes that he forgot the boy's mouth guard.

Sighing to himself, he plunges his hand back into the equipment bag and rummages around for it, praying it's in its case. It isn't, and it reeks, so Killian drops it instead into the breast pocket of his jacket and implores Ian silently not to chip a tooth (at least, not any of his permanent ones).

The deep hum of the Zamboni fades from beyond the locker room, which is the parents' cue to leave. Killian flashes Ian a grin, then exits the room with the rest of the parents and climbs the bleachers to join Emma and the others.

Emma smiles at him as he sits beside her, but Killian holds his return smile until he's certain she's snug beneath the thick flannel blanket they brought.

"Are you warm enough, love?" he asks.

"Yes," she answers patiently. Killian knows she's a bit exasperated with his attention (he monitored what she ate for breakfast carefully and firmly insisted she wear a knit hat) but she's letting him fuss over her for now.

(Her generosity in this matter likely won't last much longer, but Killian will take full advantage of it until then.)

Snow, sitting on Emma's other side, leans past her daughter to ask, "Is Ian excited?"

"Aye, he is," Killian replies. "He said he's going to score five goals."

"I bet he does score five," David says.

"I'll bet you 10 dollars he scores six," Will counters. He's sitting in the row below them beside Sarah, craned around with a smirk.

"Is that an actual wager?" David asks Will with a lifted brow.

"Aye, mate. You in?"

"Sure." David offers his hand and Will takes it firmly and shakes it.

"Can you guys not wager on my six-year-old's hockey game?" Emma asks.

"Too late I'm afraid," Will says with mock dismay. "We've already shaken on it, see?"

Sarah's eyes are twinkling with amusement, and Killian has to turn his face away to hide his own grin, but David withers a bit beneath the combined glares of his wife and daughter. Luckily for him, however, the coaches lead the kids out of the locker room then and they all fall silent and turn their attention to the rink to watch the group of 20 six and seven-years-olds—of which Ian is nearly the smallest—take the ice.

It's very much like watching a gaggle of baby ducklings leap into a pond for the first time; half of them land cleanly and skate away, half of them fall flat on their bellies or rear ends. The coaches scoop the fallen ones up, helping them back to their feet with hands on jerseys or under armpits.

"Wow he's gotten way better," David observes, eyes on Ian as Ian zooms around a corner and neatly dodges around one of his slower, more wobbly teammates.

"He practices on that rink Sarah made for him every day," Emma says. "He can do those crossover things now."

The rink in question is a rectangular patch of ice that Sarah created in their yard; it's far too small to be of use to an adult, but for someone Ian's size it's perfect and he does indeed skate on it every day—some nights, Killian has to physically remove Ian from the ice; the equipment makes him a bit heavier but he's still small enough overall for Killian to toss over a hip or a shoulder.

After the coaches run the kids through a warm up drill they send the white team to the visitor's bench and the red team to the home bench and the game begins.

Killian slips his arm around Emma's waist. She leans into him, her head falling onto his shoulder, and whenever Ian's not on the ice Killian ducks his head to kiss her brow and, purely out of habit, tune into the conversations and the bustle around them.

The bleachers are crowded with families. There are plenty of children there—many too young to sit still and therefore finding other ways to entertain themselves—and a few rows down Killian spies a baby; he has zero experience with infants and can't guess this one's age other than to say that it's definitely not a newborn but that it's clearly not walking on its own yet. It's chubby and very wiggly, and as Killian watches its mother shift it from one position to the other to find the configuration the baby's most happy in, he begins to wonder how he'll manage an infant with one hand.

Having grown used to the hook, he's not usually aware of his empty left wrist, but he feels it now—keenly. He supposes he won't know how he'll make it work until he tries, but experimenting on a live babe doesn't seem ideal. Perhaps he can practice with a doll...

He feels eyes on him suddenly, and turns his head to see Sarah gazing at him. Killian freezes, not sure what to expect, but she merely gives him a warm smile before politely looking away.

Killian's cheeks heat. He's not certain if Sarah knows Emma's pregnant—Emma hasn't told her yet but Snow might have. _Will_ knows, a fact that upset Killian initially (why was Will Scarlet aware of Emma's pregnancy before he, the _father_, was?), until he recognized that Will was there for Emma when Killian couldn't be.

He supposes that's what family is—being there for each other. Will's become their family, as integrated into their daily lives as David and Snow are. Emma joked that they might have to repay Will for his tip about the pretzels by making him the baby's godfather, but Killian thinks her suggestion might have actual merit.

Next to him, Emma makes a strange sound and her head disappears from his shoulder. Killian glances over and feels his stomach drop. Her skin is ghostly white, a strange, strained look in her eyes.

"I'm gonna be sick," she rasps, and before Killian can react she bolts from the bleachers.

He rises to follow, tripping a little over his own feet and the flannel blanket that fell from Emma's lap, but a small hand shoves him back down with far more strength than is fair.

"I've got it," Snow says, and pushes past him. Killian watches her follow Emma around the perimeter of the rink towards the bathrooms, and when his astonishment that Snow White pushed him—actually _pushed_ him—fades, he jumps to his feet again and races down the bleachers.

When he gets to the bathroom, he realizes why Snow pushed him back down. He stops short at the door, almost physically repelled by the emblem of a female figure marking its surface. Hesitantly, he reaches out to push it open a crack, and calls into the opening.

"Emma?"

The only answer is the unmistakable sound of vomiting from somewhere inside. A fist clenches around his heart and he takes another step forward, opening the door an inch wider.

"Emma? Can I come in?"

The door is wrenched suddenly from his grasp and then Snow's standing in the gap. She ushers him inside with a hand on his jacket sleeve and another firm shove—this time towards the stalls.

"No one's in here, you're fine," she says. "I'll stand outside and try to redirect people."

Killian nods and goes to Emma. She's in the largest stall, slumped in front of the toilet on her hands and knees, coughing and visibly shaking. He drops immediately to his knees beside her and takes hold of the hair he's assuming Snow already brushed off of Emma's shoulders and away from her face with his hook and puts his hand firmly but gently on her back, hating the minute trembling he feels below his fingers.

"You alright, love?" he asks.

"Ugh," Emma responds, mostly into the toilet, and then her entire torso tenses and her shoulders heave as a fresh wave of vomit hits her.

Killian grimaces at the sound and the smell and the droplets that splatter his jacket sleeve, but he keeps his hook in her hair and his hand on her back, muttering, "I'm here, Emma. I'm here. Get it all out," until she sits back on her heels and wipes her mouth.

"I think that's it," she says in a shuddering voice. Her cheeks are still pale and the green of her eyes is dimmed. "Sorry about your jacket."

"I don't mind, Swan. Just be careful not to get it on you."

They sit together for another minute, until she lets out a deep breath and starts to stand. Killian can't help the hand he places beneath her elbow to assist her, but she doesn't bat an eyelash and she even lets him keep his hand on her arm until they reach the sink.

"Feel better?" he asks quietly, after she's washed her hands and face and rinsed out her mouth.

She meets his eyes in the mirror over the sink and gives him a thin smile. "Yea."

He holds her gaze. "You've been dealing with that all on your own for weeks?"

"Not_ weeks_. Just the one, really. Thanksgiving was the first time the nausea turned into actually throwing up."

"I'm sorry, Swan."

She shrugs, then straightens. "It's fine."

It's _not_ fine. He should have been there for her. She shouldn't have been alone in this.

She turns into him, as if she heard his anxious thoughts, her hands coming to rest on his chest, fingers gripping his jacket lapels. She stares at him for a long moment, frown softening slowly into a smile, a smile that gradually forces the fist still clenched around his heart to loosen, until a smile spreads over his own lips.

"I'd kiss you," she says, the hue and the sparkle returned to her eyes, "but I guarantee you don't want that right now."

He chuckles. "As much as I love kissing you, I have to agree." He slips his arms around her waist and kisses her forehead instead. "Would you like me to take you home?"

"No, I'm okay."

"Are you certain?"

"Yea. If I'm gonna get sick again it won't be for a while. I can make it through the rest of the game."

"Alright. Do you feel able to return to our seats?"

"Yea. We should get back before we miss those five goals Ian's going to score."

"Mm. Aye. And it sounds as though your mother has her hands full keeping the bathroom clear."

Outside the door he can hear raised voices, and when he and Emma exit the bathroom they find Snow at the head of a queue of women, explaining in calm but commanding tones that the bathroom is occupied. All eyes turn condemningly to Killian—the man exiting the lady's bathroom—then fall to Emma.

"Great," she mumbles, as the accusing looks morph immediately into sympathetic ones. "This is exactly how I wanted the whole town to find out I'm pregnant."

"It's not the _whole_ town, love," Killian says lightly. "There's still plenty of time to put an announcement in the newspaper. Or we could just tell Leroy and let him take care of it-"

Emma elbows him hard in the ribs, just as a chorus of shouts from the ice and an air horn from some zealous parent in the stands signal that a goal was scored.

* * *

The game ends with a score of 11 to 8, numbers attributed largely to the size of the goalies relative to the size of the nets. Ian's team won, but he only scored three goals, so as punishment for betting on a child's (_her_ child's) hockey game Emma takes the $10 from both David and Will.

"You just bought Ian some nice socks from Santa Claus," she says.

"_Socks_?" Will splutters. "No, no, no. Give that back and let me buy him something he actually wants."

"Who says he doesn't want socks?"

"The lad's 6. Of course he doesn't want socks."

"Know a lot about 6-year-olds, do you?"

"Well, I was a 6-year-old boy once, same as him, so yea, I'd say I'm qualified."

Will reaches for his money, but Emma snatches it from his reach and tucks it into her jeans pocket.

"Socks," she repeats, unmoved by Will's kicked-puppy face.

After Killian and Ian emerge from the locker room and everyone takes turns congratulating Ian on his goals, they part ways.

Sarah gives Emma an extra tender hug that Emma realizes means she probably knows Emma's pregnant, and Emma squeezes her back in a way she hopes communicates how grateful she is that Sarah knows but hasn't asked Emma to actually say those words out loud to her yet.

Sarah's always understood her, in that way.

Emma's parents seem to assume that Emma still needs to rest (probably because she just threw up in the bathroom) so there are no suggestions of lunch at Granny's or at the loft, just more hugs and her dad's forehead-kiss and then waves from a distance in the parking lot.

On the way home, Killian drives them down Main Street, and as they're passing the Christmas tree lot Emma hears a seatbelt unclick, and then Ian's voice is in her ear.

"Can we get the tree now?" he asks.

Out of the corner of her eye, past Ian, Emma sees Killian turn his face towards her. The car slows—Killian asking her the same question as Ian—but keeps its course.

"Yea, let's do it," Emma says. Getting a tree feels like a normal thing to do, and Emma wants more than anything for this to be a normal Saturday.

Ian crows triumphantly, and Killian barely has the car parked before he launches himself out of it.

(Emma should probably engage the child safety locks on the back doors.)

Emma and Killian walk hand-in-hand down the aisles of trees, following Ian as he inspects each and every one. Emma feels weak and a bit shaky and she desperately wants to go home and brush her teeth, but Killian's fingers are somehow warm even through the wool of her gloves and honestly it's all worth it to see the intensity with which Ian scrutinizes what looks to Emma like fifty nearly identical evergreen trees.

Finally, he decides he wants the white pine because the needles are soft (a fact he demonstrates by walking as far into the tree as he can and proclaiming, "See? It doesn't hurt!") but when the salesman informs them that the white pine's supple branches don't support ornaments very well, they end up with a Douglas fir.

They carry it into the house and stand it up, then debate the best place to put it.

Killian argues that the nook is the optimal solution but Emma doesn't want to disassemble his reading refuge and wants the tree instead by the side doors that lead to the patio; Ian wants it in the corner by the fireplace, so in the end they compromise and put it in the corner by the fireplace.

After the tree is placed precisely where Ian wants it and it's straight, they all sit on the couch to admire their handiwork and breathe in the sweet, piney aroma that Emma's sure has already invaded the entire house.

Not that she's complaining.

She's one of those people that's strict about absolutely no Christmas _anything_ before Thanksgiving, but man does she _love_ Christmas.

She didn't always. It's a recent thing. A since she and Henry celebrated their first real Christmas together in Boston thing. A thing that grew every year after that because of Ian and Henry and how magical it was reliving Christmas through them, taping over the memories of how much Christmas sucked ass when she was a kid.

Usually, on December 1st her home undergoes a makeover pretty similar to the one Main Street underwent. She's a little behind schedule this year, what with Henry leaving for school and Emma not wanting to leave him out of all the decorating and then the spider attack and the hypothermia...the only real changes Emma's managed so far are getting the box of Ian's Christmas books out of the attic.

But the tree is a big step. The tree is already making her feel like things are back to normal.

(Even if they're actually not.)

"Mom?"

Emma looks down, to where Ian is tucked against her side. "What's up?" she asks.

"Can we show Henry?"

"The tree?"

"Yea."

"Sure. Here." Emma digs her phone out of her pocket and passes it to Ian, who expertly opens Skype and calls Henry.

After a few rings, Henry answers. "_Hey, mo—oh, hey Ian_."

"Hey," Ian responds with a smirk, then he and Henry spend a full minute pulling various faces at each other, until Ian dissolves into giggles.

Emma reaches out to steady Ian's hand and leans into the frame. "Hey, kid," she says. What's going on?"

"_Nothing_," he sighs. "_Just studying_."

Henry's hair is sticking up all over and has distinctive furrows from where he must have been dragging his fingers through it; while he's fumbling to balance his phone Emma catches a glimpse of a literal dragon's hoard of energy drink cans on his desk in the background.

"For which class?"

"_All of them_," Henry answers, dryly. "_I have my math final on Monday though, and I'm kinda stressed about it_."

He's been complaining about the class all semester, about how he understands the material in lecture but struggles with the homework.

"You'll be fine," Emma assures him. "Study hard but don't burn yourself out. Remember to take breaks. Go for a walk and get some fresh air-"

"Eat," Killian interjects.

"_Yea_," Henry sighs again, dejectedly. "_Yea, I will. So, what's up?_ _Why are you calling?_"

"We got the tree!" Ian screeches, and vaults off the couch. He carries Emma's phone to the tree and plunges it into the branches.

"_Can you—can you like back up a little?_" Henry's voice says from somewhere inside the tree. "_All I can see is green._"

Ian hops backwards three steps.

"_I—oh, okay, I see it. Wow. Yea, wow, it looks good_."

"And it smells good too," Ian says proudly. "Like a real tree."

"_It is a real tree_."

"I know! I'm saying it _smells_ real too."

Their conversation devolves from there, into what can only be described as bickering. Emma shakes her head and scoots sideways, into the space Ian left between her and Killian.

Killian's watching Ian with that fond smile he gets whenever Ian and Henry are doing something particularly brotherly. Emma lays her head on his shoulder, her eyes immediately drifting shut.

This being tired thing is getting ridiculous. Three full days of sleeping should honestly be more than enough sleeping. She hopes she gets her energy back soon.

She knows she _won't_. Not _really_. Not until the 2nd trimester.

(Maybe the Black Fairy will be polite enough to wait until then?)

In any case, she's supposed to put some sort of magical protective barrier around the town on Monday, so maybe two more days of sleeping is okay?

You know, just to get ready for Monday. Not because sleep feels awesome right now or because Killian's really comfy to fall asleep on or anythi-

"Are you happy, Swan?" Killian asks quietly.

"Yea, really hungry."

He laughs. "I asked if you were happy, actually, but thank you for answering my next question." He turns his face into her hair and plants a kiss there. "What would you like to eat?"

Emma almost suggests Chinese (she didn't feel sick _at all_ the morning after they had takeout), but she threw up only two hours ago and she should probably eat something that has a few more of those good-for-baby vitamins that Killian's baby blogs say she needs.

"How about some yogurt?" she says. She feels Killian's head jerk back.

"Really?" he asks, surprised.

"Yea. And a banana."

She sees his grin as he slips off the couch and starts towards the kitchen.

"Oh, and a cheese stick," Emma adds hastily. In spite of every single experience she's ever had with a cheese stick, she wants one suddenly.

"Ooh! I wanna cheese stick!" Ian says. Ian trots after Killian, Emma's phone swinging idly at his side, Henry's voice pleading, "_Ian! Ian I'm still on the phone! Ian, give me to mom. Ian! Goddammit._"

* * *

The bar is packed, which is both fantastic and fantastically exhausting.

Kept busy, Killian doesn't notice how quickly the time's passing, and it isn't until nearly midnight that he realizes he hasn't eaten dinner. He excuses himself to the back office in order to scarf down the sandwich he packed for himself and to catch up on any texts he might have missed from Emma.

She texted him goodnight at 10:30, and a few hours before that she sent him a photo of her and Ian in their pajamas holding the DVD case for _Polar Express_ in between them.

Killian smiles at the photo while he finishes his sandwich. He wishes more than anything that he could be at home with them, but he already left Will and Smee to run the bar by themselves for three days in a row this week, and Smee's home sick so if Killian wasn't here it would just be Will all alone on one of their busiest nights.

Besides that, it _is_ Killian's bar and what's the point of owning it if he doesn't put any work into it?

Killian finishes his sandwich and is rising from his desk when he notices the envelope. It's Ian list for Santa Claus; Killian took the envelope out of his jacket when he got to the bar and then forgot all about it. He picks up the envelope but hesitates for a moment, and after a quick debate in his head he decides that Will and Smee can handle things without him for 5 more minutes.

He sits back down and pries the envelope open, careful not the rip any of the stickers Ian stuck to it. He was expecting an actual itemized list like the one he presented Emma with before Thanksgiving, but what Ian wrote to Santa is more accurately a letter.

A very _long_ letter (which explains why he was so proud to have finished it that morning).

_Dear Santa_, it reads, _How are you and the reindeer doing?_

Killian laughs.

_I'm doing really good, _the letter continues_. A lot happened since last Christmas. I found my dad and me and my mom and Henry moved to Storybrooke and now we all live in a big house together. Well, Henry is in college right now but he lives here when he comes home. Anyway, I think I've been a pretty good boy this year and I'd really like some Pikachu pajamas and some new games for my Nintendo DS (it's actually Henry's old one but he said I can have it) or maybe just a brand new Nintendo Switch so I can play Pokémon Sword and Shield. I'd also like some books to read with my dad because my dad really likes books and I really like it when he reads to me. _

Killian's throat feels suddenly tight, but it only tightens as he reads on.

_I know you've never brought a gift for my mom but she told me you used to when she was a kid like me. Did you ever bring a gift to my dad when he was a kid? He used to live in the Enchanted Forest. I don't know if you go there, but if you've never brought my dad a Christmas gift can you bring one for him this year? I know he's a grown-up but I think it would be really cool and he would be really happy. _

_Love, Ian._

_P.S. Maybe you should bring my mom something then too, so she doesn't feel left out._

_P.P.S. Henry said he's too old to write you a letter but I know he wants wireless headphones so you should get him that._

Killian rereads the letter several times. The spelling and sentence structure are actually impressive, for Ian, but what strikes Killian the hardest is how heartfelt it is (at least compared to the absurd list Ian prepared for him and Emma), and when he goes home much, much later he goes straight to Ian's room.

Ian's asleep, of course, curled up in a ball beneath the covers, his breathing deep and slow, the golden hair that Emma's letting grow out curling around his ears. Killian runs the backs of his fingers lightly down the boy's cheek.

It still astonishes him, sometimes. That he's a father. That this boy is his.

That this _life_ is his.

That he has a home and people in it waiting for him, a woman that sighs contentedly in her sleep when he wraps his arms around her and a rascal that's worried for him because he never received a gift from Santa Claus.

That he and Emma have another child on the way.

(That last one will likely continue to astonish him for quite a while.)

Killian runs his fingers along Ian's brow one final time before leaving the boy to his slumber. He goes down the hallway to his and Emma's room where Emma's also asleep, her presence almost indiscernible beneath her customary pile of blankets. Killian changes out of clothes that smell of the bar and puts on his sleep pants and a clean t-shirt, then brushes his teeth in the bathroom and uses the toilet.

When he returns, Emma's awake.

"Hey," she says sleepily.

"Hello, love," he replies softly as he settles in beside her.

Emma yawns and snuggles against his side. "How was your night?" she mumbles into his t-shirt.

"Good." He leans down and kisses the tip of her nose. "I read Ian's letter."

She smiles, one eye opening a tiny sliver. "Yea?"

"Aye. You'll have to read it, Swan. It's quite interesting."

"Alright, I wi-"

She stiffens, both eyes flying open, head swiveling towards the door as if she heard something.

Killian falls still and listens as well, but the house is silent.

"Did you check on Ian?" Emma whispers.

"Aye, I was just in there. The lad's asleep."

Her brow furrows, then she flips the covers off and gets out of bed. Killian follows, all the way down the dark hallway back to Ian's room.

Emma gives a little start when she reaches the doorway, and Killian hastens his step until he's at her side but all he sees is Ian, sitting up in bed with his legs hanging over the side and his hands knotted in his lap.

Except, Killian realizes, Ian's not awake. He's still sleeping, sitting rigid and unmoving, his eyes closed and his expression blank.

"Ian?" Emma says.

Ian doesn't respond—he doesn't even stir.

Killian steps forward and lays his hand gently over Ian's hands. They're freezing cold, and Killian almost wrenches his hand back in shock.

"Ian," he says, loudly, tightening his fingers, prepared to give the boy a shake. "Ian, wake up!"

Ian does, with a jolt, and lets out a breath that fogs in the air.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for how long this chapter took; I'll try to have the next one finished faster!

Emma's about to chew a whole right through her bottom lip; she's been worrying it between her teeth all day, meticulously stripping away all the peeling bits that she caused by gnawing at it in the first place.

David's beginning to look worried.

More accurately, David's beginning to look _more_ worried, because Emma hasn't seen him look _not_ worried since before the giant spider attacked the town and she passed out from hypothermia and everyone found out she's pregnant.

He probably wears his frown to bed, nowadays.

In any case, if she doesn't stop it with her lip he's going to come out of the back office and ask her if everything's alright. For the seventieth time. And Emma doesn't want that. Because it's Monday and she's back to work and she wants people to stop worrying about her. She has enough to worry about as it is without worrying about _other_ people worrying.

Emma stands up and starts towards the break room—not because everything's actually alright, just because she wants to do her own worrying about how very _not_ alright everything is in peace for five minutes.

She forgot that the only times she's left her desk that morning were to throw up in the bathroom though, so of course the moment she stands up David rushes to his office door.

"You okay?"

"I'm fine, dad," she says with what she's aware is a very wan smile. "I'm gonna make some tea."

"Have you eaten?"

"Yes."

_No_.

But David's not Killian; he takes her words as the truth and returns to his desk with a satisfied nod, and that makes her feel a lot like an asshole so she decides she'll have a snack with her tea.

The station is empty, David having sent their two day-duty deputies out on patrol after her first incident of morning sickness. Emma has the break room to herself, and she takes full advantage of it by sprawling out on the lone couch once she's got the electric kettle going—turns out the fatigue she feels on a molecular level has more to do with being pregnant than it does with having had hypothermia.

Which means another month of all this, morning sickness included.

And that's another month only if she's lucky, since the last time she was pregnant she remembers being tired well into her second trimester, and she was a whole 6 years younger back then.

(Really, she doesn't understand how some women actually _choose_ to become pregnant.)

(And that's only partially because getting pregnant has never been a choice Emma's ever made so far.)

God, did she just say _so far_?

What the fuck.

Emma sighs and closes her eyes.

Okay, maybe she's thought about it a little; thought about how, after this one's born, maybe she'll want it to have another sibling closer in age; or how maybe if this one's another boy then she'd want to try for a girl; or how maybe even if it _is_ a girl then she'd want another boy so that Ian could have a little brother _and_ a little sister...

Alright, she's getting ahead of herself. She's only 8—possibly 9—weeks pregnant at this point, and there's still a significant risk of miscarriage.

(Although she knows that even if she did miscarry it wouldn't be the end, because while this wasn't something she was really sure she wanted before, it's something she knows she wants now.)

Emma takes a deep breath and forcibly shifts her thoughts, back to the reason she's nearly chewed her lip off.

_Ian_.

What happened Saturday night scared the shit out of both her and Killian, but Ian was only confused when he woke up and saw both his parents standing in the dark staring at him.

_"What?" Ian asked._

_"Nothing," Killian answered quickly. "We heard you having a nightmare, that's all. Go back to sleep."_

Emma's grateful Killian was there to handle things, to tuck Ian beneath his blankets and locate Roger and One-Eyed Jim, because she was still distracted by the lingering prickle beneath her skin; she felt something before they rushed to Ian's room, something she's felt before but forgotten about—that pre-lightning-strike tingle, the hair raising all along her arms and the back of her neck, the sensation of being doused in cold water...

That was Ian's magic.

And what scares Emma the most about that is that it's only ever awakened before in self-defense.

So why did it wake up while Ian was sleeping safe and sound in his bed?

Emma knows the answer. The answer kept her awake the rest of the night and had her creeping into Ian's room in the gray light of dawn on Sunday morning to check on him. She watched him sleep for a long time, contemplating what to do, contemplating who to ask for help and how.

She laid awake again Sunday night, her senses tuned, waiting to feel Ian's magic again. She fell asleep eventually, unable to keep her eyes open any longer; she was awoken after what felt like minutes but must have been hours because Killian was home and the lights she'd left on were off, and when she realized it was Ian diving into their bed with ice cold hands and feet that woke her up she decided that if the Apprentice won't help her stop Ian's dreams then she'll ask Regina—and if Regina can't help her then Emma will figure out a way to do it herself.

"I thought you said you were fine."

Emma startles, eyes flying open. David's standing in the doorway. The electric kettle has long since finished boiling but Emma's tea-less and half-asleep on the couch, which is probably something someone's who's _fine_ doesn't do.

"That may have been a lie," she admits.

"I'm assuming that means you also lied about having eaten."

"I mean, I ate breakfast."

David doesn't move, save to cross his arms. Emma's never really been on the receiving end of one of his reproving glares before, and she doesn't like it. His pale blue eyes are chilling when they're unhappy.

"You need to take better care of yourself," he says.

She sits up, swinging her boots off the armrest and back to the floor. "Have you been talking to Killian?"

"I don't need Killian to tell me how to take care of my daughter."

"Well _I_ don't need to be _taken care of_," she protests.

David unfolds his arms and strides to the coffee table; he sits on it facing her and leans forward, his scowl softening.

"You sure you're okay?" he asks.

"I'm fine."

"You're not _fine_. You threw up three times today and you look like you haven't slept."

_Because I haven't._

"I'm just tired, dad. It's a pregnancy thing. So is throwing up-"

"I know," David interjects quietly. "I remember when your mother was pregnant with you."

He's smiling gently, and there're definitely stories there, stories Emma never considered even existed, and the thought makes her pause—which is a grievous mistake, because David's a bit slyer than he looks and he takes advantage of her momentary speechlessness.

"Let's do the protection barrier another day," he suggests. "When you're more rested."

Emma sighs. "_No_. We can't risk waiting any longer."

They're lucky only _one _giant spider's crawled up their asses so far.

"Emma, in your condition-"

"My _condition_?" Emma knows her dad is old-fashioned but she didn't think he was _that_ old-fashioned. She almost—_almost_—asks if he was born in the Dark Ages, but she's pretty sure he technically was, so instead she says, "Dad, I'm pregnant, not sick."

"I know you're not _sick_-"

"Then please stop treating me like I'm about to drop dead."

He flinches, jaw snapping shut and hurt flashing in his eyes. Emma regrets her hasty words immediately but keeps her glare firmly in place. She knows she's right, and she knows they'll all rest a little easier once the protection barrier is up.

David stares at her for a long moment, frustrated, but not angry. Then he inhales deeply through his nose, lets it out slowly, and says, "I just want to know that you're really okay. With..._everything_."

Oh.

This is it then. This is the moment they finally Talk About It.

"Everything as in getting knocked up?" she asks.

David scowls. "Emma-"

"Dad, that's what happened," she says flatly. "I'm pregnant for the third time and for the third time it was a complete accident. It's fine. I'm not embarrassed."

Well, she _is_, but she'll die before she admits it.

"Me and Killian are both okay," she continues. "This was obviously a surprise and the timing is really, really terrible, but...we want it."

That was apparently what David was after. "Okay," he says, brow un-knitting, shoulders relaxing. "Okay, good. I'm...I'm happy for you guys."

And Emma can tell that, underneath the small, worried frown he's still wearing, he truly is.

"Thanks, dad."

He shifts, slipping from the coffee table to the couch beside her, and pulls her into a smothering hug.

Emma melts into him, hers eyes closing of their own accord. David's not that much older than Emma but somehow his hugs always feel like dad hugs: they're warm and safe like Killian's but there's something about David's broad chest and arms and the way he cups the back of her head that makes her feel small again.

"Think you can handle some lunch?" he asks.

Emma smiles into his flannel shirt, hunger rumbling to life in her gut—what she's beginning to recognize as a sign that the morning sickness is passed.

"Only if it's sesame chicken from Mushu's," she says.

\---

At 4 o'clock Emma and David leave the station and take David's pickup to the edge of town, where the streetlights of Main Street stop and the fields that eventually become the forest start.

The Apprentice, Sarah, Regina, and Killian are already there waiting in the swiftly gathering darkness. Killian grins at her from his perch atop the Bug's hood, one leg propped on her front bumper (and yea, Emma's starting thinking of the Bug as a "she" ever since Killian started referring to it as one, because all vessels, whether they be of land or of sea, are ladies). As Emma approaches, he tilts his chin up and says, "Sesame chicken again, eh Swan?"

Emma rolls her eyes. "Shut up. And stop texting my dad behind my back."

Chuckling, Killian slides off the Bug and slips an arm around her waist, fingers tightening on her hip in a way that manages to be both protective and possessive and also _extremely_ hot.

(Has she mentioned it's been a while since they had sex?)

(Well, it has.)

"How was your day, love?" Killian asks, voice pitched low for Emma's ears alone.

"Uneventful," she mutters.

"Given the circumstances, that's music to this pirate's ears."

"Yea," Emma agrees.

He ducks his head to kiss her forehead, a brief press of soft lips and the faintest scratch of his stubble.

"How's Ian?" she asks.

"His usual, Swan. I tried asking him about his dreams but he won't answer me."

Emma nods. Ian refused to talk to her about his nightmares too. He definitely has her stubbornness. "Is he with Will?"

"Aye."

"On your ship?"

"No, at the house."

"Oh, I thought you were taking Ian to the Jolly Roger after school."

"I did. And then I sent him and Will to the house."

"Ah. Did you get everything done that you needed to?"

"Aye. She's all ready for tonight."

"Tonight?"

"Yes, Swan. Tonight. Monday night. _Date_ night."

Emma blinks. "Oh."

"Did you forget?"

"I...I sort of did, yea."

"Quite alright. _I_ remembered." His eyes crinkle in a smile and he presses his lips once more to her forehead. They're warm and he's warm and now her stomach's warm too, and Emma leans her head back, inviting his mouth farther down, to hers.

(The damper that her pregnancy symptoms and the whole hypothermia thing have put on their sex life is suddenly very annoying and incredibly unfair.)

Regina clears her throat. "Can we get on with this, please?" she calls. "I didn't come all the way out here to watch you two exchange body fluids."

Killian makes an amused sound and breaks their kiss. "_Later_," he murmurs against her lips, and squeezes her hip.

They separate, and join the others. Emma ignores Regina's scathing look and instead focuses on Sarah and the Apprentice. The Apprentice has one of his gigantic leather-bound books tucked under his arm and Sarah's holding a bowl of salt. At their feet is more salt, laid out on the ground in a straight line that extends to either side as far as the eye can see. They're standing exactly inside a five-foot wide gap in the line.

Emma, who's seen an episode or two of Supernatural in her time, thinks she understands where this is going.

"Alright," Emma says, gaze flicking from the salt line to the Apprentice's book. "What do you want me to do?"

"We already set everything up," Sarah says, shifting the bowl of salt in her hands. "You just need to add your magic to it."

And that's what Emma does. She sits cross-legged in the middle of the road and pours her magic into the salt circle Sarah and Regina spent most of the day drawing around the entire town while the Apprentice stands behind her and mutters an enchantment under his breath.

Emma can feel his words twisting their way into her magic, binding it to the salt circle, which Sarah completes by emptying the contents of her bowl into the street and bridging that five-foot gap. Regina's burning a smudge stick as thick as Emma's wrist; it smells both woody and sweet, like amber and balsam, and inhaling it makes Emma's magic feel sparkly.

Afterwards, Killian helps her to her feet. Emma looks immediately to the smudge stick Regina's extinguishing.

"What is that?" she asks.

"Myrrh and dragon's blood," Regina explains. "The dragon's blood enhances magic and the myrrh wards off evil."

"And this is gonna keep out the Black Fairy?" David asks.

"We don't know," Sarah says. "It will keep her creatures out, but there's no way of knowing if it's strong enough to keep _her_ out until..."

"Until she tests it," Regina finishes flatly.

"What about people, you know, driving over it?" Emma says, before anyone starts throwing her worried looks. "Wait—_will_ people be able to drive over it?" The salt looks like normal salt, but its power is a faint vibration in the air, and Emma's pretty sure the smell of myrrh and dragon's blood that's tingling her nostrils is emanating from the salt itself.

"Anyone that's not a creature of darkness will be able to pass through the barrier as they please," the Apprentice explains. "But since _your_ magic is bound to the circle, you are now the only one capable of damaging or destroying it."

_The only one except for—possibly—the Black Fairy_, Emma amends. She leans into Killian, and he places his arm around her shoulders.

"Do you feel alright, love?" he asks.

"Yea, I feel really good, actually." She expected to feel drained afterwards—and she does, a little bit, but she also feels energized in a way she hasn't recently.

"That's your magic, dear," Sarah says with a kind smile. "It's a vital part of you. It needs to be exercised."

"You've been missing your lessons recently," the Apprentice adds, pointedly.

"Ah," Emma says. "Uh, yea. I, um..." She doesn't want to lie to his face, but she also feels a little awkward telling him the reason she's been skipping his lessons for the past two weeks is because she found out she's pregnant and that it's been a lot to process.

Sarah steps in for her. She lays her hand gently on the Apprentice's arm, and murmurs, "You know the reason for her absence, my love. Don't give her such a hard time. She'll return to your lessons when she's ready."

Emma almost shits a literal brick when Sarah says _my love_, but she manages to hold it together and keep a straight face long enough for the Apprentice to huff a grudging, "Very well."

It's the understanding and the patience that does her in—and the fact that she can't think of a good reason _why_ she's trying to keep her pregnancy a secret anymore (other than maybe not wanting to deal with everyone's reactions, but that's all gonna happen sooner or later so she may as well just get it over with).

"I'm pregnant," she says. "I mean, I know you already know-" She darts a glance at Sarah, sees her encouraging nod. "It's just...that's the reason I haven't been around. I've been dealing with...that."

Regina's eyes are popping out of her head, Sarah's beaming, and the Apprentice's beard is twitching in what Emma thinks might be a smile.

"I understand," the Apprentice says. "Although that's no excuse. You still have much to learn, and it's not only for your own sake that you _must_ learn."

"Watch it, mate," Killian growls.

The Apprentice winces—not at Killian's threat, but at Sarah's fingers, digging visibly into his arm. "I only meant that Emma's powers are not diminished because she's pregnant," he says.

"The _other_ part, Bedwyr."

"He's right," Emma says. "I do need to go back to my lessons." Emma waits for Sarah's fingers to loosen before continuing. "I'll start training with you again if you help me get the Black Fairy out of my kid's head."

David, Regina, and Sarah snap to attention and Killian's arm tenses around her, but the Apprentice frowns.

"I already told you that any potion or spell to help Ian sleep would do more harm than good in the long run. You'd only be-"

"Something happened," Emma says. "Something different."

The Apprentice's brow furrows. He stares at her with narrowed eyes for a long moment, then says, "Tell me."

Emma relays what she and Killian witnessed on Saturday night, and when she finishes the Apprentice exhales deeply and closes his eyes.

"I need to think."

"Well, think fast," Killian advises.

The Apprentice merely shakes his head slowly. "What you described...I think I know what's happening, but there's something I need to confirm before we take any next steps. Can you bring Ian to my house tomorrow?"

_Another night of nightmares_.

"Fine," Emma says.

"In the meantime..." The Apprentice lifts his arm and turns his hand over, revealing a glass vial in his palm.

Emma takes the vial carefully. "What does it do?"

"It induces a deep, dreamless sleep, and it's only to be used in emergencies."

"Half a teaspoon would be more than enough for a child," Sarah warns. "One or two doses won't cause any long-term side-effects, but more than that..." She grimaces. "I would use it only if what happened Saturday night happens again."

"Thank you," Emma says, closing her fingers around the vial. "We'll see you tomorrow."

\---

"You're going to give Ian that potion, aren't you?" Killian asks. He's driving, eyes fixed forward, hand and hook at 2 and 10 on the steering wheel.

"Yes," Emma says.

"Despite being cautioned not to?"

"Yes."

"Do you know what's happening, then? Why Ian's waking up half-frozen?"

"It's his magic. I don't know what it's doing exactly, I just know that it's doing it to protect him."

"Like before."

"Yea, like before." Emma looks over. It's odd, how much of a boy scout he can be about certain things—like driving etiquette—even though he's a pirate. "Are you going to try and convince me not to give him the potion?"

"No, I...I agree with you. I'm a bit frightened, but...I agree."

Ahead, Granny's looms, and Killian sighs.

"Well, I_ was_ going to surprise you with Chinese, Swan, but you rather foiled that plan," he teases, throwing her a grin. "My next idea was to get takeout from Granny's and spend the evening on the Jolly Roger, but perhaps you'd rather go home?"

"No, I...there's something I want to do."

"Oh?"

Emma doesn't respond. She waits for him to look over, and when he does he realizes instantly what she has in mind.

"Are you certain?" he breathes.

"Yes."

His cheeks flush, and Emma sees a blush creeping up his neck—she also sees his hesitation.

"Haven't you read anything about pregnancy sex in any of those baby blogs?" she prods.

"Aye, I have."

"And?"

"And they all say it's fine as long as the pregnancy's healthy. Which it is. Correct?"

"It is," Emma confirms. "So what are you afraid of?"

"I...I don't want to hurt you or the babe."

"Killian, I'm trying to tell you that you _won't_. We've _already_ had sex while I'm pregnant—technically we even had sex while I was pregnant with Ian."

"That was different."

"How?"

"I didn't _know_ you were pregnant those times."

"Is it a turn-off for you that I'm pregnant?"

"No!" he says quickly. "It's...it's quite the opposite, actually, I just..."

Now Emma flushes, heat flooding her belly at the idea of Killian being turned on by her being pregnant with his child, and they've definitely already driven past Granny's and are heading towards the docks.

"Killian, I want this," she says, even though it's clearly unnecessary at this point since she can see the Jolly Roger.

"I want this too," Killian says softly. The Bug is basically crawling now, though it's crawling towards Killian's usual parking spot. "I just wanted to know that _you_ wanted it, and I've...I've never done this before."

"I literally just told you that you _have_ done this before."

"You know what I mean, Emma," he says, the use of her name making her breath catch. "Things are different now, but I don't...I don't want anything to change between us."

"It hasn't," she assures him. "Now can you please park the car so I can show you that?"

\---

Emma insulated the entire ship by magic in November when Will moved in, so not only do the captain's quarters smell of fresh air and citrus from Killian's cleaning, they're also cozily warm in spite of the frosty temperature outside.

Killian sheds his jacket and helps her remove hers and then he traps her in a kiss and starts walking her backwards. She's so caught up in his hand cupping her jaw and his tongue curling around hers that she barely notices reaching the bed and laying down on it—it's only when Killian produces a box of condoms that the haze momentarily clears.

"Why?" she asks. "I'm already pregnant. Wearing a condom _now_ isn't going to change that."

Killian blushes. "Aye. I...I thought..."

Emma knocks the box from his hands to the floor and pulls him down on top of her by his shirt collar.

He stops himself just before his body weight settles fully over her, hovering with their chests and bellies barely touching. After a brief pause during which Emma counts his thundering heartbeats—_1,2,3,4_—he lowers his hips to hers, until she can feel his arousal through his jeans, the heaviness of it deepening the aching need inside of her.

They should probably go slow and let this be a bit of a getting to know each other again sort of thing, but Emma wants desperately to reconnect with him, to be joined and feel joined. Clothes are shed hastily, skin is reintroduced to skin, and after a brief pass of Killian's fingers between her legs—presumably to ensure she's ready for him—he enters her.

Emma gasps and flinches, the stretch a bit more painful than she was expecting.

Killian freezes, eyes wide and panicked. "Emma-"

He starts to pull out and Emma grabs hold of the closest thing within reach to try and stop him, which happens to be his chest hair, which makes _him_ flinch and then freeze again.

"Shit, sorry!" she hisses, releasing her fingers. "It's—I'm fine. I promise I'm fine. Just...just go slow."

Brow pinched, breathing slowly and deliberately, he obeys, settling into her by increments. When he's fully seated inside of her, something at Emma's core unclenches. Killian sighs, as if he felt it too, as if they forgot how perfectly their bodies fit together and are both relieved to discover that, indeed, nothing has changed.

Killian holds to her the entire time, his face buried against her neck, kissing her jaw and collarbone, his thrusts precise and measured even while his breathing grows ragged and his grip on her tightens.

Afterwards, they lay together and let their skin cool. Killian has his hand over her stomach, cupping the area beneath her belly button that's distinctly firmer to the touch.

"You know," Emma murmurs. "The baby might have been conceived here on the ship."

8 weeks ago they spent a night together on the Jolly Roger. That could have been the night Emma got pregnant.

Killian chuckles. "Then that's something it will have in common with its big brother."

Emma lays her hand over Killian's. "Two little pirates," she says.

"Two little pirates," Killian agrees. He lifts his head off of her shoulder to kiss her neck, then asks, "Are you hungry?"

"I'm starving," she admits.

"Granny's?"

"Please." Emma hasn't had Granny's in over a week, but right now her mouth is watering for a grilled cheese and some onion rings. "You know, maybe sex is the cure for morning sickness."

"There's only one way to know for sure, love," Killian says with a smirk.

"We'd better get home then," Emma says. "I'm gonna need to go to bed early if we're waking up earlier than Ian tomorrow."

Killian's up and off the bed in an instant. "I'll text Will and tell him we're on our way."

\---

Will stays for two full periods of the Bruins game, and then Killian declares that it's time for Ian to go to bed. Ian protests loudly all the way up to his room, which he has to be thrown over Killian's shoulder and carried to.

Emma walks Will out, thanks him for his babysitting services, then goes to the kitchen to make hot chocolate, one with whipped cream and cinnamon for her, and two with marshmallows for Killian and Ian. She puts the three mugs on a tray, then shakily she pulls the vial the Apprentice gave her out of her pocket.

The liquid inside the vial is opaque and lilac, and as Emma contemplates pulling the cork and adding half a teaspoon of it to Ian's hot chocolate, something inside of her whispers, _No_.

It doesn't feel right. Emma doesn't know anything about it, how it works or whether it will work or what happens if it works too much. So she puts the vial away, in the ceramic canister on the countertop that Ian never tries to look in anymore because Emma's convinced him that it's purely decorative.

Upstairs, Killian and Ian are snuggled together in Ian's bed with a book. Killian's eyes fall to the hot chocolates in Emma's hands as she carries them into the room. Emma shakes her head subtly, and sets the tray on Ian's bedside table, next to Ruby's fish tank.

"What are we reading?" she asks.

"The Grinch," Ian says brightly, his smile and ceased objection to bedtime explained by the pile of books in Killian's lap.

"Alright, scoot over. I wanna read the Grinch too."

Grinning, Ian shifts so that Emma can squish onto the mattress beside him and Killian. Emma passes Ian his hot chocolate but holds onto Killian's so that he has his hand free to read. Ian takes an enormous slurping sip from his mug, and when he's finished Killian clears his throat and begins reading.

"Every _Who_ down in _Who_-ville likes Christmas a lot..."

\---

Emma definitely fell asleep partway through _We Don't Eat Our Classmates, _and she definitely doesn't remember how she got into her own bed, but that's where she wakes up, feeling like someone dumped cold water all over her.

Only she's dry, and her skin's prickling all over.

_Fuck_.

She whips her arm out, to where she knows Killian is lying beside her in the dark, and smacks him in what feels unfortunately like his jaw.

"_Killian, wake up!_"


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter should not have taken so long but it did; it gets technical and very explain-y, so I apologize for that but I promise it's necessary!

For the first time in a long while, Killian's dreaming pleasantly, reliving in vivid detail the sensations from earlier in the evening, a coupling that was new and familiar all at once—only in his dream he's less restrained, in his dream there's no fear of harming the delicate life inside of Emma, no need to hold himself in check.

And then something smashes into Killian's jaw and he's not dreaming anymore.

"Killian, wake up!"

He's alert in an instant, muscles tensed, blunted wrist raised defensively even though it's been months since he slept with his hook on, but the moment he sees Emma's eyes, wide and panicked, he understands.

_Ian_.

Emma's out of bed before Killian can speak a word in response. He leaps after her, and together they sprint down the hallway to Ian's bedroom.

Astoundingly, it's empty save for one forlorn orange crab lying on the rug.

Killian looks around, as if he might find Ian hiding behind his dresser, or next to his bookshelf; he even looks at the fish tank accusingly, but Ruby is sleeping peacefully at the bottom beside his tiny treasure chest.

"Where is he?" It's a foolish thing to say, but the words tumble out of his mouth nonetheless, propelled by the anxious flutter in his chest.

"I don't know," Emma mutters. She looks past him, back down the hallway, but there's no possibility that they passed Ian without realizing it, so they both fall still and listen.

Killian's learning the sounds of the house, all its creaks and groans and their origins. It's come in handy often, when the house is suddenly too quiet and Ian's been out of sight for far too long. Usually in those moments Killian finds Ian upstairs in Henry's room in the attic, reading some comic book he's not supposed to or playing with an action figure Henry never lets him touch when he's home. This isn't that though, this is Ian possibly in some sort of magical trance that they know absolutely nothing about, and as the silence stretches the frantic flutter beneath Killian's breastbone moves into his throat.

_Where is he?_

Killian holds his breath, eyes closed, ears straining, mind racing. Ian _could_ be in one of the other rooms on the second floor, rooms that are mostly empty and mainly used for storage; Ian could be downstairs, or even in the basement—should they call for him? If he's in the same state he was in two nights ago he might not hear them, and if he's on the move in that state then-

The squeak of a wooden floorboard shatters the silence, faint but as deafening to Killian's ears as a cannon blast.

"Downstairs," he says, moving towards the sound even before he properly has his eyes open again.

The first floor is dark, all the curtains in the kitchen and living room drawn, creating two dense pockets of shadow to either side of the entrance hallway, which seems bright only by comparison; the lamplight streaming in through the long, narrow windows on either side of the front door is thin but just enough to make out Ian by—he's standing in the entryway facing the kitchen, completely unmoving save for the rise and fall of his chest, his breaths rapid but shallow and fogging in the air as they did two nights before.

The sight sends a spike of terror through Killian. Another image bursts to life inside his own head, the memory of Ian floating unconscious underwater, slowly drowning while Killian kicked his way towards him, fighting the pull of the waves...

No longer aware of his own body, Killian hurdles down the remaining stairs and rushes to Ian; from somewhere behind him Emma's voice calls out, "Killian, wait!" but it's distant and muffled, nearly inaudible over the roaring sound that seems to be all around him.

"Ian!" he yells, taking the boy by the arms and giving him a shake. Ian's eyes fly open and he goes rigid in Killian's grasp. The roaring in Killian's ears vanishes, and in the sudden silence he hears himself draw a shaking breath—right before the pain begins.

It's like lightning beneath his skin, sharp as daggers. It shoots up his arms and pierces the base of his skull. His vision erupts in white stars, and with a gasp he lets go of Ian. Ian staggers backwards a step and is caught by Emma, who wraps her arms around his shoulders and draws him into a tight hug.

Ian struggles for a split second, until Emma presses her lips to his hair and shushes him. "It's me, Ian. It's me," she soothes. "You're fine. Everything's fine."

Killian stares, frozen in place, his arms still tingling and an ache building in his temples, and after a long moment Emma looks at him over Ian's head, and asks, "Are you okay?"

Killian swallows hard and nods, shakily. "Aye, love, I'm alright. I was just...what was that?"

"His magic," she says, then half-smiles. "I tried to warn you."

"You did. I'm sorry for not listening."

His eyes fall to Ian, shivering in Emma's arms, his face buried in her t-shirt. Killian takes a step forward and reaches out, laying his hand on Ian's head.

"Alright there, lad?" he asks gently.

Ian doesn't respond. Killian steps closer, glancing at Emma with concern.

"We need to get him warm," she says. "He's freezing."

"I'll take him upstairs and get him under the blankets." It was only a week ago that Emma had hypothermia, and Killian remembers well what Whale and his army of nurses did to revive her. "We should try to make him drink something as well—something warm."

"I'll make some hot chocolate and call the Apprentice."

Killian's reaching for Ian, but Emma's words halt him. "The Apprentice?"

"Yea."

"Emma, it's 3 in the morning."

"I know," she says, in that dangerous, steady voice that means she's already made up her mind.

"Emma..." he starts reproachfully, even though he knows that, at this point, there's nothing in heaven nor on earth that can sway her from her decision.

"I'm done with this, Killian," she whispers, tone softening, becoming almost pleading. "The Apprentice knows how to help Ian. I don't want to wait until morning. I want answers now."

They share a long, silent look. Emma's frown is etched deep into her cheeks and her eyes are hard as emeralds. Is it strange that Killian finds her astonishingly beautiful even when she's staring at him as if she's willing to stab him if he disagrees?

It probably is, though Killian can't bring himself to care.

"Alright, Swan," he concedes, and reaches for Ian again.

The boy passes limply from Emma's hands to his. He hefts Ian onto his hip, repressing a shiver when Ian's icy hands brush his bare back and a cold nose settles into the hollow of his collar bone. Despite the chill, the cold of Ian's body that tugs at the warmth of his own, Killian tightens his arms around his boy—whatever this is, whatever's happening to his son, Killian desperately wants it to stop.

Emma touches his arm, gently. "I'll be right up," she says, then moves past him into the kitchen.

Killian carries Ian upstairs. He lays the boy in his bed and covers him with both the comforter and the fleece blanket, peeling them aside briefly only to put socks on Ian's feet and to tuck Roger and One-Eyed Jim into his arms; Ian, curled into a tiny, shivering ball, reacts to neither intrusion.

_Fuck. Bloody fucking fuck_.

The litany of swears in his head grows louder and even less coherent as he scours the second floor for more blankets. When he returns to Ian's room with two more fleece throws and the duvet from Henry's bed, the lamp is on and Emma's there, sitting on the mattress beside Ian with a half-empty mug of hot chocolate cradled in her lap. On the bedside table next to her is the small glass vial the Apprentice gave them. Killian blinks at it, then at Ian, his eyes closed and his head resting on Emma's thigh, and then he looks at Emma.

"Swan, did you...?"

"No," she says quickly. "It's...it's just in case."

Killian breathes a small sigh of relief. He hadn't been completely disappointed earlier when Emma admitted that she had decided not to give Ian the sleeping potion; Killian trusts Emma's magic absolutely, but he doesn't think he'll never not be suspicious of magic from any other source.

"Were you able to get a hold of the Apprentice?" he asks, shaking out one of the fleece blankets and laying it over the other two Ian's already under.

"I did," Emma says. "He was already awake. I honestly think he was expecting me to call."

"Is he coming?"

"Yea. He'll be here soon."

Killian sets the remaining blankets at the foot of the bed and sits next to Emma.

"Aren't you cold?" she asks him, nodding towards his bare chest.

"No, love. I'm fine." He'd felt cold when he was holding Ian, but the only cold he feels now is in the pit of his stomach. "How about you? Are you okay?"

Emma smiles, one of her hands moving to touch her belly. "I'm fine."

They wait, watching Ian. The boy's still curled up in a ball, but he's no longer shivering. When there's a knock on the front door, Killian rises to answer it. He retrieves a plain white t-shirt from his and Emma's bedroom and pulls it on before going downstairs. To his surprise, the Apprentice isn't alone—standing on the doorstep beside him are Sarah, Regina, and Robin.

"I called Regina," the Apprentice says, in response to Killian's raised eyebrow. "I may need her help."

Killian's gaze shifts to Robin, and the man grins. Killian understands: Robin's their friend, he's here to be supportive. Killian stands aside to let them in.

"Where's Roland?" he asks.

"Asleep," Robin says. "Little John's with him."

Killian closes the door and gives everyone a moment to remove their coats and their shoes, then leads them upstairs. Emma looks up when they enter, then sets the mug of hot chocolate on the bedside table and moves over so the Apprentice has space to bend over Ian.

"Did you give Ian the sleeping potion?" he asks, his eyes on Ian.

"No, I didn't," Emma replies quietly, shoulders hunching and arms tightening around her middle. "I...I couldn't."

"May I?"

Emma and Killian exchange glances. Killian nods, and Emma licks her lips. "If you need to."

The Apprentice nods and touches Ian's forehead with the back of his hand. Killian expects him to reach for the vial on the bedside table, but he merely turns his hand over and runs his palm lightly down Ian's face, from hairline to his chin. Ian's body visibly relaxes, and his breathing slows. The Apprentice then reaches into the pocket of his cardigan and produces a gnarled wand; this he waves back and forth in the air over Ian in smooth, flowing movements. Killian, standing closely behind, can hear him muttering under his breath, but can make no sense of the words—Emma, however, is watching him with narrowed eyes and a furrowed brow, as if she can _see _what's happening.

The anxious flutter beneath Killian's breastbone returns, beating in his chest like a second heartbeat. After what feels like an eternity, the Apprentice straightens and turns to address Killian and Emma. "Is there somewhere I can sit?" he asks.

"Aye, I'll fetch you a chair," Killian says. He starts towards the door but Robin waves him off.

"I've got it, mate."

"Thank you, Robin. One from the kitchen will do."

"I'll help," Regina mumbles, and follows Robin from the room.

In their absence, Sarah steps closer. She's frowning. "Bedwyr?"

The Apprentice throws her a reassuring smile, brief and small and a bit sad.

"What's going on?" Emma asks.

The Apprentice sighs. "I'm afraid I owe you an apology," he says.

"For what?"

"I once told you that the nightmares Ian had were a sign that he had a special gift. Do you remember?"

"Yea," Emma says slowly, glancing at Killian.

"I was correct in one assumption but wrong in another," the Apprentice continues. "Ian _does_ have a special gift, but it's not the one I thought it was."

"So you're saying he doesn't have the gift of prophecy or whatever?"

"No. He has an entirely different power, one just as rare and—for a boy his age—much more dangerous."

The flutter in Killian's chest sharpens, and a voice from long ago slithers across his mind.

_Magic always comes with a price_.

Killian can still see the lightning bolt that crumbled the cliff edge and sent Ian hurtling into the sea; he can still feel Ian pressed against his legs—his very bones shaking—while a ghostly wind tore through the loft; he still remembers that place Emma described, the cavern Ian goes to inside of himself to use his magic, and what he saw tonight and two nights ago will likely haunt him for a very long time.

"What's this special power?" he growls, fingers curling into a fist.

"Astral projection," the Apprentice replies.

He's eyeing Killian calmly, just as he did the night they first met, the night Killian pinned him to a wall and held his hook to the man's throat. Shame blooms inside of Killian, and he forces his fist to unclench.

"Uh, astro what?" Emma asks, nose wrinkling.

The Apprentice's attention shifts to her. "Astral projection," he repeats.

"The hell is that?"

They're interrupted by Robin and Regina and the chairs. They set one by Ian's nightstand for the Apprentice, and the other by Ian's bookshelf for Sarah.

The Apprentice sits in the chair and takes a deep breath. "Astral projection is the ability to separate one's soul from one's body."

The statement is so absurd that for a moment Killian can't even process it, but Emma's eyes bulge.

"_What_?" she hisses.

"When Ian sleeps," the Apprentice says, "a part of him, his soul or his spirit—his consciousness even, however you'd like to think of it—leaves his body and..."

"And what?" Killian prompts.

"And travels."

"Travels?" Killian asks. "To where?"

"Anywhere," the Apprentice says, with a slight shrug. "Ian's soul can travel anywhere, including to other realms."

"But it's...is that not teleportation?"

"It's similar," Regina chips in, her tone crisp and businesslike. "With teleportation one's entire being is moved—their physical body and their soul. With astral projection, it's just the soul that travels."

Sarah speaks, her voice tender. "For Ian, it probably feels like a very realistic dream."

"But you're saying it's _not_ just a dream?" Killian says, eyes darting from Sarah to the Apprentice.

"No, it's not," the Apprentice confirms. "Whatever happens to Ian's soul when it's travelling also happens to his body."

"So, he could...if his soul was injured, he would..."

"His body would be injured as well."

Killian doesn't dare ask what would happen if Ian's soul died, but the cold spot in his stomach opens wide and spreads, flooding his veins with ice. He looks swiftly to Ian, his eyes closed peacefully in sleep. Is his soul travelling now? Should they wake him up? His arm moves of its own accord, reaching out-

"That's why Ian was cold," Emma says abruptly. "Because his soul was somewhere cold."

"Exactly," the Apprentice says, inclining his head.

Emma exhales tiredly. "Why does this all sound sort of familiar?"

Instead of answering, the Apprentice looks at Regina.

Regina rolls her eyes. "It sounds familiar because you've heard of something similar happening to victims of a Sleeping Curse," she drawls. "The souls of those who fall under a Sleeping Curse travel to the Netherworld until their physical bodies are woken up. Sometimes that particular connection...lingers."

"My mom and Henry," Emma says. "And my dad. They all went there in their sleep even after they'd woken up."

"Yes, it's like that—only if Ian can astral project then his soul isn't bound to the Netherworld. It can travel _anywhere_, whether it's an ethereal realm like the Netherworld or a physical one like the Enchanted Forest."

"Ian's soul could travel to the Enchanted Forest?"

Regina's lips twitch into a sneer. "What aren't you comprehending about the word _anywhere, _Miss Swan?"

Emma's back straightens and she glares. Killian subtly takes a step back, out of her path.

"Regina," Robin murmurs, fingers curling around one of Regina's wrists.

Regina blinks and tears her gaze from Emma's, and Emma turns slowly back to the Apprentice.

"Alright, how does the Black Fairy figure into all of this?" she asks.

The Apprentice's mouth pulls into a thin, grim line. "Ian's soul is travelling to the Dark Realm."

"How?" Killian blurts, ignoring Regina's ensuing scoff.

"When the Black Fairy was awoken," the Apprentice says, "I believe her energy inadvertently drew Ian's soul into her prison with her whenever he slept."

"So the dreams Ian was having about her before she escaped the urn weren't dreams?"

"No, and neither are the dreams he's having now. I believe a connection was forged between them while she was still trapped in the urn that's drawing Ian's soul to the Dark Realm." The Apprentice looks sadly at their worried faces and then looks at Ian. "His magic is trying to protect him by sending his soul to a cold place to escape the Black Fairy and the Dark Realm."

Emma snorts softly. "She doesn't like the cold?"

"Apparently not," the Apprentice says, eyebrows lifting in faint surprise at the revelation. "Unfortunately, Ian's body can't tolerate the cold place either."

Killian steps closer to Emma and puts his arms around her shoulders. Her hand lifts immediately to his and she threads their fingers together.

"What does the Black Fairy want?" he asks. "Is she just...playing with him?"

_Little Ian's safe for now—although I did thoroughly enjoy playing with him in his dreams. I'll have to thank him for that._

The Apprentice shakes his head. "She probably wants Ian himself. He has powerful magic. She could turn him to Darkness and use him as a pawn, feed his magic to the Dark Realm, or..."

"Or?" Emma presses.

"Or she could devour him herself and absorb his magic."

"Devour him?" Killian's stomach turns.

"It's one of the oldest and foulest forms of magic, practiced by dark witches for centuries," Sarah says, her usually serene, composed features broken by a disgusted grimace. "The last known practitioner of that ritual was an old blind hag that lived in a candy house in the Enchanted Forest."

"You mean like...Hansel and Gretel?" Emma asks.

"Yes," Regina says. "Pan's Shadow was also rumored to have eaten a child or two in its day as well."

"Wait!" Killian barks, jolting suddenly with a realization. "Pan's Shadow. Why was Ian dreaming about Pan's Shadow?"

"For the same reason children visit Neverland in their dreams," the Apprentice explains. "It's the Shadow's ability to draw the souls of sleeping children to it."

"So Ian wasn't dreaming then either?"

"I'm afraid not. He was projecting his astral self—or his soul—to where the Shadow was." The Apprentice's brow pinches. "It's actually very likely that it was the Shadow's presence that awoke the ability inside of Ian—if not for the Shadow, that power may have slept inside of him for many more years."

Killian huffs and looks down at Emma. "I feel like I understand things even less than I did before," he admits.

"Me too," she agrees, her lips compressing in a sad smile, her fingers squeezing Killian's.

Killian swallows hard. "So what do we do?" he asks the Apprentice. "How do we stop Ian from...from _astral projecting_ to the Dark Realm every time he sleeps?"

"For now, the only solution is to bind Ian's soul to his body."

"Will that hurt him?"

The Apprentice smiles gently. "No, it won't. But it's not permanent. The binding spell will fade eventually—rather soon, if Ian's magic is as powerful as I think it is. The only real way to help Ian is to teach him to control his powers."

"You mean teach him magic?" Emma says.

"Yes."

"Does it have to be now? Can it be...after? Can we just do the binding thing now and worry about the rest later?"

"Well-" the Apprentice starts.

"Yes," Sarah interjects. "Teaching Ian magic can wait—but the longer you wait the more likely Ian is to accidentally misuse his powers. This binding spell is a Band-Aid, Emma, not a cure."

"I know. I understand." Emma glances up at Killian, for support or comfort or both. He sits beside her, his arm slipping from her shoulder to her waist; her fingers stay locked with his, their hands twists together against her hip.

"Are we doing this, love?" he murmurs.

"I think we have to, Killian. I don't see any other choice."

He ducks his head to press a kiss to her shoulder, and sighs into her shirt. "Me either," he says, and closes his eyes even as the flutter in his chest that's now like a knife through his ribs digs a little deeper.

\---

While the Apprentice prepares for the binding ritual, Sarah leaves the room to make tea and hot chocolate in the kitchen. Emma and Killian peel the layers of blankets back and roll Ian carefully onto his back. Regina stands apart, arms crossed, white-knuckled hands gripping her elbows. Robin's leaning against Ian's dresser, his arm propped on its top edge, chewing his thumbnail and staring absently at Ian with a crease between his brows.

"You don't have to stay, mate," Killian says quietly. "You should go home to your lad."

"My lad's just fine," Robin says, eyes locking with Killian's.

He doesn't have to say more; Killian comprehends his meaning, one father to another. If Roland was in danger, Killian would be there beside Robin doing whatever he could to help.

"I don't think I said congratulations yet, by the way," Robin adds, grinning. "So, congratulations."

The cold that's been sitting in Killian's gut recedes a little. He looks at Emma, meets her smile with one of his own before he turns back to Robin. "Thank you."

"Have you told Ian yet?"

"No, not yet. We want to tell Henry first."

"Wise decision."

Sarah arrives then, with a tray full of steaming mugs. She passes tea to Regina and Robin, and hot chocolate to the Apprentice and Emma. Killian accepts the mug she offers him but doesn't intend to drink—until he smells it, that is.

"What is this?" he marvels, inhaling the rum and lemon scented vapor rising from the amber liquid in his cup that's definitely not tea.

"A hot toddy," Sarah says, setting the tray down atop the chair she was seated in earlier and taking a prim sip from her own mug with an expression that's far too innocent. "I thought you'd prefer that to tea."

"Indeed," he chuckles. "Cheers." He sniffs the drink once more, then raises his mug in a salute before taking a large swallow. It's sweet and biting at the same time, with hints of honey and cinnamon in addition to the rum and lemon, and Killian savors both the heat of it in his throat and the burn of the alcohol in his belly.

Emma's at his elbow. She inhales with a rapturous expression. "God I miss these. It's been so long since I've had one."

"Next winter," Sarah consoles Emma with a wink. 

"May I?" Robin asks, jerking his chin in the direction of Killian's mug.

"Of course." Killian hands over his drink and watches Robin take a hesitant sip.

"Wow," Robin grunts, smacking his lips and returning Killian's mug to his outstretched hand. "That's a charming little drink you've concocted."

"Would you like one?" Sarah says. "I can make more."

"Quite alright. Next time perhaps."

Regina clears her throat. "I can't believe I have to say this twice in 24 hours, but can we get on with this please?"

The room falls silent. Emma and Killian turn to the Apprentice, but the Apprentice looks at Regina, a hard, piercing look that's made slightly ridiculous by the cinnamon-speckled whipped cream in his moustache. "I need a binding agent," he says.

Regina arches a brow and hides her smile behind the rim of her teacup, "What do you require?"

"It must be potent, and as pure as possible."

Regina's amusement evaporates. "I know what you're asking for," she says acidly.

"And?"

"That's a tall order, Apprentice."

"Indeed it is. Do you have it?"

"Of course I have it," Regina sneers. Nostrils flaring, she lifts her hand; a plume of purple smoke appears, and when it clears Regina's holding a Hermes jar. Inside is a liquid that's both transparent and iridescent, like a soap bubble.

"That's far more than I was expecting," the Apprentice says with a reproving scowl.

"There used to be more," Regina returns, unperturbed.

"What is that?" Emma asks.

"Unicorn blood," Regina says.

"Mm, lovely," Killian remarks dryly, taking another sip of his hot toddy.

Emma makes a face. "Is the unicorn you got it from still, uh, alive?"

"No," Regina replies flatly, and hands the jar over to the Apprentice.

The Apprentice glowers at the jar. "I'll need to put some of this on Ian's chest. Can you remove his shirt please?"

Emma and Killian set their mugs down and obey. They strip Ian of his pajama top, then stand aside so the Apprentice can begin.

The whole process takes a mere ten minutes. Killian watches with a mixture of fascination and trepidation as the Apprentice dips a finger into the jar of unicorn blood and inscribes a glittering symbol in the center of Ian's chest, over his heart, then applies more blood to Ian's brow, wrists, and ankles.

Killian tries not to look too closely at Ian, at his slack limbs and the goose pimples on his bare arms his slightly open mouth—he looks more unconscious than asleep, and it's only Emma's hand in his that holds him steady.

"Part of me sort of wishes Ian could see this," she whispers.

"Aye," Killian whispers back. "He'd love it."

When the jar of unicorn blood is safely set aside, the Apprentice takes up his wand and waves it over Ian again, only this time a stream of golden light flows from its tip and forms an image, as if he's drawing in the air; the image resolves into a human-shaped frame of light the same size as Ian, with lines of thinner, more delicate light inside that sketch out a rough map of what Killian guesses must be his skeleton and circulatory system.

The light is thicker and more intricate in the same places the Apprentice applied unicorn blood to Ian's body, circling Ian's forehead, chest, wrists, and ankles like glowing ribbons. The Apprentice mutters some more words, and the framework descends until it sinks into Ian's skin. It glows all at once, as though Ian has tattoos made of light, and then it fades.

With an exhausted exhalation, the Apprentice lowers his wand and steps back.

"That's it?" Emma asks. "He'll be okay?"

"For as long as the binding spell holds, yes," the Apprentice replies, wiping the sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his faded brown cardigan.

Killian feels something loosen inside of him, as though he was holding his breath for hours without realizing it. "Thank you," he says.

The Apprentice shakes his head. "No thanks are required. I apologize again for my mistake. If I had not been wrong from the beginning I could have stopped all this sooner. I think..." He chuckles to himself, tiredly. "I think I was too eager to see something of my master in your son."

"You miss him," Killian states. Grief is something he understands, something he can empathize with.

"I do," the Apprentice murmurs. Sarah crosses the room and loops her arm through his.

"Let's go home, my love," she says. "You need to rest."

The Apprentice nods, and Killian sees him lean heavily into Sarah. Robin swoops in before Killian can, taking the Apprentice's other arm and a bit of his weight off of Sarah.

"I'll walk you to your car," he offers.

"Thank you, Robin."

Regina leaves with them, but Robin ends up staying.

"To keep watch," he claims, but Killian knows it's to keep them company. "I'll be downstairs if you need me."

Left alone, Emma and Killian crawl into Ian's bed. They get in on either side of him, rearrange Roger and One-Eyed Jim, then pull the covers over themselves. Ian's still sleeping, although Killian's certain his slumber is natural now. He settles with the boy tucked against his chest and his arm draped over Emma's hip, and falls asleep the moment his head touches the pillow.

\---

When they wake up, it's Robin that's waking them. Killian recognizes the smell of bacon before he registers the worried expression Robin's wearing.

"What is it?"

"I just got a call from my men," Robin says. "They found something in the woods on their first patrol."

\---

The something is both exactly what they expected and the last thing they need: another portal.

Emma curses loudly, and whirls around to kick the snow viciously, flinging a spray of it into the trees. 

Two of the Merry Men stare at each other for a long time before one of them—the one that lost, apparently—finally says, "That's not all."

Emma's swearing cuts off abruptly, and she stomps over to the man that spoke until she's nearly nose to nose with him. "What do you mean?" she demands.

"I mean that's not the only one," the man responds, eyes averted. "There are more."

"How many?"

The second man takes pity on his comrade and responds for him. "We've found three so far, your highness."

Emma's cheeks flare red at the title, but she doesn't waver. "So far?"

"We've only just started searching."

"Fucking great," Emma huffs, turning on her heel to face Killian. "This is fucking great."

"I don't know, love," he says. "I'll take a giant spider over our son's soul leaving his body in his sleep any day." Last night Killian was terrified, but now, in the aftermath, standing in the sunshine and the crisp air, knowing his son is safe—at least for a little while—Killian feels revitalized. "Now," he continues with a grin, slinging his arm over her shoulders and tugging her tightly against his side, "is it too much to hope that you'll sit this one out, Swan?"


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ended up being way more of an interlude chapter than I thought it was going to be??? Anyway, I wanted to move the story ahead a little while I had the week off to get some writing done; the next chapter has A LOT happening (including a bit more wrap-up concerning Ian's dreams), but my next few weekends are very full so it'll take me a while to finish it. Thank you again for your patience--I've felt totally drained since Christmas so everything's just been so...slow. I'm excited about the upcoming chapters though. Were getting really close to Christmas! :D

It's Thursday night, nearly three full days since they found six portal sites in the woods, six clearings where ash rained down from the sky and the snow was melted down to the bare earth, revealing patchy yellow grass littered with bits of charcoal that still glowed faintly purple. Together, Emma, Killian, David, and the Merry Men have tracked down and destroyed four giant spiders so far; the fifth they discovered already dead, probably from exposure, which means that—assuming each portal coughed up exactly _one_ spider—only one spider remains.

"Where do you think it is?" Emma asks, as she plods up the path from the front gate to the house, kicking her way through the two inches of fresh, powdery snow that fell that afternoon.

"Well," Killian sighs, "if it's still alive and not dead from the cold like the last one, then it's probably holed up somewhere warm."

"_Fuck_," Emma mutters. According to her dad's sentries, none of the spiders even attempted to leave the woods—let alone approach the town—so whatever the Black Fairy sent them for this time, it wasn't to attack. "Do you think she sent so many spiders as a distraction?"

"You mean, do I think the Black Fairy was hoping more than just the one spider would get away?"

"Yea."

"Aye. I believe she underestimated you yet again."

"Underestimated _us_," Emma corrects. She killed the first two spiders—located an hour and three hours after they found the portals—but the other two were disposed of by the Merry Men and the arrows Emma fortified with light magic, a trick she learned completely by accident when she gave one of Robin's arrows a little boost and it actually drew blood. After Emma enchanted all of the Merry Men's weapons (and Killian and David's swords), they split into smaller groups to cover more ground.

But all that took place on Tuesday, and the only trace of another spider they've found since then is the lifeless corpse of one they stumbled upon Wednesday morning.

"Maybe we should start checking the farms tomorrow," she suggests tiredly as they trudge up the stairs side-by-side. "There are a lot of empty properties south of the woods. The last spider could be hiding out in an abandoned barn or something somewhere."

_Like Neal did_.

"Aye," Killian agrees, nodding his head just as tiredly. "We should search the cliffs along the sea as well."

"Why?"

"There are caves there, Swan."

The _last_ thing Emma wants to do is start poking around in strange, dark caves, but the alternative is leaving the spider be. "Alright, I'll text my dad," she says. "We'll have to come up with a plan for tomorrow. He can probably do the farms if we do the cliffs."

"I thought your father was picking up Henry from the bus stop tomorrow?"

"Shit, yea. He is." Emma asked her dad to get Henry from Bangor because she's afraid to leave the town unprotected, even for a few hours. "I guess we're on our own then tomorrow."

"We're hardly 'on our own', love," Killian says, stopping on the doorstep and turning to face her.

Emma smiles—stiffly because her cheeks are freezing. "Yea, you're right."

With weapons no longer useless against the spiders, Robin and the Merry Men have proven themselves capable of handling them without Emma—plus there's Sarah Fisher, whom Emma's told helped kill the fourth spider by corralling it inside a ring of giant icicles and freezing its legs in place so the Merry Men could fire upon it at will.

"You know," Emma says, stepping closer to Killian and reaching up to grip the lapels of his leather jacket. "I think running around the woods all day looking for giant spiders is a good excuse to take a night off of work."

Killian's hand lifts to cover one of hers, but he shakes his head. "As much as I want to, love, I can't. I shouldn't leave Smee alone."

Emma expected his answer, but she had to try anyway. "How's Will's ankle?" she asks.

"His ankle's fine," Killian says, "but his cold isn't. Any chance you can mend a runny nose and a fever?"

"Yea, it's called medicine."

There were no casualties from the battles Emma wasn't present at, but the Merry Men managed to acquire a good dozen or so minor injuries, all of which the Apprentice was able to heal. Emma watched him work, and although his magic isn't like Emma's magic it gave her a starting point, and from there it was just a matter of following her instincts and the rhythms of the body she was working with—she mended Alec's smashed hand, Midge Miller's bruised ribs, and Will's sprained ankle on her own without issue.

Illness, however, is something entirely different—at least, that's what she was told and she doesn't know yet if it's true or not; for now the most she can do for Will's cold is what she's been doing for Ian and Henry for six years: chicken noodle soup and some Tylenol.

"How about Ian and I visit Will after hockey practice?" she says.

"How about you and Ian take a night off from hockey altogether?" Killian counters with a grin. "I'd say running around the woods all day looking for giant spiders is a good excuse to skip practice and spend the evening in bed watching a movie."

"Tell that to Ian."

The binding spell the Apprentice performed seems to be working so far: Ian's neither woken up in the middle of the night nor admitted to having any nightmares since Monday. Emma kept him home from school on Tuesday and therefore kept him home from hockey practice that night. He's been back to school since Wednesday but they've had to keep him cooped up in the house during the afternoons and evenings.

Killian cocks his head, eyes straying to the front door. "Speaking of Ian, we should probably relieve our babysitter before she decides she'd rather _not_ return tomorrow."

"Now I think _you're_ underestimating _Ruby_," Emma teases. "She does have two kids of her own."

"Aye, but neither of them are Ian."

Killian opens the door and they stomp the snow off of their boots before going inside. The warmth of the house is intense compared to the temperature outside and Emma feels the cold melting off of her bones immediately. She stops and basks in it for a second, relieved to be home, relieved to be able to put both the Savior and the Sheriff away and just be-

"Mom!"

Ian's in the kitchen, sitting at the table with Ruby, Rowan, and Gideon. He leaps out of his seat and races over, skating across the hardwood floor of the entrance hall and skidding into her legs; once halted, he wraps his arms around her waist and frowns up at her.

"Did you get any more spiders?" he asks seriously.

"No," she replies, removing her gloves and running one hand through his hair.. "We still can't find the last one."

"Oh." His frown deepens. "Are you gonna get it tomorrow?"

"We're gonna try to."

He nods, then tucks his head against her stomach and hugs her tightly, mindless of how cold her coat must be against his cheek.

They decided not to lie to him about the spiders. No one's mentioned the Black Fairy's involvement explicitly but Emma thinks that, on some level, Ian gets it. Emma wishes he didn't, she wishes he could remain oblivious, but they're well past that—especially with whatever happened to him in the Dark Realm.

(Ian still hasn't spoken about his dreams, and Emma and Killian haven't told him that his nightmares were anything more than just nightmares.)

After a moment, Ian breaks their hug and moves to Killian.

"Hey there, lad," Killian greets, then scoops Ian into a crushing embrace that makes them both grunt and Ian giggle.

Emma smiles and sheds her coat and boots. Ian once described her hair as being magically capable of curing sadness, but what's magical to Emma is his and Killian's laughs, how carefree they are with each other. It helps remind her why they just spent three days traipsing through the frozen woods: to preserve this.

To ensure Ian has this forever.

To ensure the baby will have this.

(The _baby_.)

Emma takes a deep breath to calm the flutter of excitement in her belly. They're going to tell Henry that she's pregnant tomorrow, and that feels like a big step forward—maybe from there she and Killian can start discussing things like names and which room they want to put a nursery in.

(Probably the small one right next to theirs.)

Emma turns her back on Killian and Ian and the embrace that's devolved into some sort of wrestling match and crosses into the kitchen.

"So," she says. "What are you guys up to?"

The kitchen table is strewn with books and papers. Rowan, her tawny curls caught up in a ponytail, is bent over one of Ian's dinosaur coloring books with a fistful of his twistable crayons, giving a Stegosaurus pink and purple polka dots. Ruby's sitting across from Rowan with Gideon balanced in her lap. "I was just quizzing Ian on his spelling words," she says.

_Shit_.

Emma totally forgot Ian has a spelling test tomorrow.

"How's he doing?" Killian asks. He hobbles into the kitchen, dragging Ian—who's stuck to both of his legs in some sort of horizontal ankle hold, like a human shackle—along with him.

"Pretty good. These are the ones he keeps having trouble with." Ruby hands Killian a list of words, several of which are circled in red marker.

"Hm," Killian remarks, scanning the list. His eyes flick down to Ian. "Spell 'people'."

"P-E-P-L-E," Ian recites.

"P-E-_O_-P-L-E," Rowan corrects, without looking away from her coloring book.

Ian blushes. "P-E-_O_-P-L-E," he grumbles, scowling at what little he can see of Rowan from his location around Killian's ankles.

"How about 'eight'?" Killian says. "Spell 'eight'."

"A-"

"Not ate as in, 'I ate an apple'; eight as in the number 8."

"Oh. E-I..." Ian hesitates, face scrunching. "G?" Killian nods encouragingly. "E-I-G...H?"

"Aye, H."

"I-H?"

"No, aye as in yes. So _yes_, H comes after G."

"Ok. E-I-G-H-T."

"Perfect. I'll think you'll do just fine tomorrow, lad." They exchange grins, then Killian adds, "Did you thank your aunt Ruby for studying with you?"

"Thank you for helping me study, Ruby," Ian chirps dutifully.

"And thanks again for watching him," Emma says.

Ruby brushes off their gratitude with a shake of her head. "Thank _you_ for doing what _you_ do, Emma."

Emma grimaces. She's the reason the Black Fairy is attacking them in the first place, so no one should be praising her for anything.

Ruby sighs. She drops a kiss atop Gideon's brown hair (Gideon who's oblivious to everything except for the half a banana he has mashed in one fist and over most of his face) then turns to Rowan. "Alright, Ro, you ready to go home?"

"I want to keep coloring," Rowan mumbles.

"We're coming back tomorrow. You can finish it then."

"But I wanna finish it _now_—I wanna take it home for mom!"

Emma sees Ruby's lips compress, recognizes the situation—one she's been in many times before, the moment when the next words out of your mouth will either defuse your kid's impending tantrum entirely or set it off like a nuclear explosion.

So Emma turns to Ian. "Hey Ian," she says, her tone so suspiciously wheedling that Ian narrows his eyes instantly. "Can Rowan borrow your coloring book and your crayons?"

"My _crayons_?"

Killian gives his leg a rough shake, jostling Ian. "You have plenty of other things to color with upstairs, lad. Let Rowan borrow your crayons for the night."

"Fine," Ian sulks. His cheek is resting on Killian's socked foot, which kind of ruins his whole pout, but Emma decides that she'll ask someone else to watch Ian after school tomorrow—three days stuck in the house together is apparently too much _together_ for Ian and Rowan.

Ruby sends Rowan off to pack up her bookbag and find her shoes and coat, then she stands with Gideon in her arms.

"You need any help?" Emma asks.

"Nah, I'm fine. I just need to get his diaper bag. Here, hold him for me for a second?"

To Emma's surprise, it's not her that Ruby's addressing—it's Killian.

Killian's eyes widen and his mouth falls open, but before he can actually utter a protest Ruby's passing the one-year-old into his arms. "The hook," Killian mutters, but Ruby shushes him and just helps guide Killian's hook arm safely beneath Gideon's bottom. His other arm she places around Gideon's chubby tummy.

Killian stands rigidly, Gideon squirming against his chest, head craning back, trying to get a good look at who's holding him.

"I can take him," Emma offers, rounding the table.

Killian startles, eyes snapping to Gideon. "No, Swan. It's...it's alright." He gives Gideon an experimental bounce, and Gideon grins. "Ah, there we are." He looks back at Emma, beaming proudly, and her breath catches.

She's never seen Killian holding a baby before. It aches profoundly and feels wonderful all at the same time; Ian didn't get this—and that's something that will hurt forever—but the baby _will_. The baby's going to grow up knowing Killian, and Killian's going to be able to raise his child from birth. Emma knows from experience how precious that is. It's going to change Killian. He's already changed so much from raising Ian, but this is going to change him _more_.

And then Killian says something so ridiculous that Emma thinks he must have gotten a concussion from playing knee hockey with Ian last night.

"What do you think, lad?" he says, looking past Gideon's kicking legs at Ian. "Should we get one?"

Ian wrinkles his nose. "A baby?"

"Aye."

Ian releases Killian's ankles and rolls onto his back. He stares up at Killian from the tiled floor for a long moment, expression blank. Finally, he says, "Can we get a dog instead?"

\---

After Ruby leaves with Rowan and Gideon, Emma, Killian, and Ian spend half an hour together at the kitchen table wolfing down the cold leftovers of the spaghetti they made two nights ago while Ian doodles a picture of Emma fighting ten giant spiders and regales them with the tale of his day.

"There's gonna be a Santa's Workshop at school next week!" he says excitedly.

"What's that?" Killian asks.

"It's like a little store that the kids can buy gifts at," Emma explains. "Santa's not actually there, don't worry."

"Ah. That sounds quite nice. Who are you going to get gifts for?"

"You, mom, Henry," Ian rattles off, dropping the marker he's drawing with to start counting on his fingers. "Grandma, grandpa..."

As he lists names, Emma keeps track in her head of how much money she's going to have to give him next Monday. She hasn't done _any_ Christmas shopping yet, but it's December 12th so she should maybe get on that—Black Fairy or not, Christmas is happening.

(Her parents already told her what they're getting Killian, and she definitely can't top their gift but she does want to get Killian something special, something to commemorate his first Christmas with them.)

At 5:15 Killian goes to the bar and Emma and Ian go to hockey practice. While Ian works off three days worth of pent-up energy, Emma texts Henry, making sure he's packed and that he has his bus ticket all set for the morning. He's slow to reply, meaning he's either partying with his floor mates or texting Ava—or both.

After practice, they stop at Granny's to pick up some soup for Will. Emma drops Ian off in The Crow's Nest first so he can spend ten minutes with Killian, and when she returns for him she finds him behind the bar pulling a beer from the tap while Smee supervises.

"You're lucky I'm the sheriff," Emma mutters.

Killian grins and kisses her on the cheek while Ian, standing on his tiptoes with his tongue between his teeth, passes the overflowing pint across the bar into Hal's waiting hand. Hal leaves a dollar on the bar as a tip, and Killian gives the money to Ian. "Keep that for Santa's Workshop."

Their last stop before home is the Jolly Roger to visit Will. He's living in the crew's quarters, which is actually pretty spacious since he's the only occupant. He's huddled on one of the bottom bunks beneath two thick blankets, a sheen of sweat on his brow.

"Why don't you come stay at the house for a few days until you feel better?" Emma asks.

"M'alright," Will mumbles.

"You're not alright," Emma chides. "I'd feel better if you came home with us."

"I don't want to get you sick."

"I'm not gonna get sick."

"You might. Smee got _me_ sick."

"You got sick because you were running around the woods for two days with no hat on your big, stupid head."

Will frowns mulishly. "No, it was Smee."

In the end his obstinacy wins, and since Emma can't physically pick him up and carry him she's forced to leave him on the Jolly Roger with a second helping of Granny's chicken noodle soup, some Gatorade, and the bottle of Tylenol.

Ian has to be fished out of the cargo hold, and then it's back to the house for bedtime. Emma unpacks Ian's hockey bag while he takes a bath; she keeps forgetting to Google if hockey equipment can be washed or not. Maybe she can just toss it in the tub with Ian and some Mr. Bubble, let it soak for an hour.

She amuses herself with the idea as she climbs the stairs from the basement to the second floor, turning out the lights on the first floor as she goes.

(The porch light she leaves on for Killian, as she always does when he's working.)

Ian's already out of the bath, trying to brush his teeth with one hand and pull his pajamas on with the other.

"How about we focus on one thing at a time, kid?" Emma says.

Ian grunts something unintelligible around his toothbrush and continues trying to wiggle his bottom into a pair of very uncooperative flannel pants. Afraid he's going to have an accident that requires the surgical removal of a toothbrush from his brain, Emma puts the toilet seat down and sits on its fluffy cover so she can hold Ian steady until he gets the pants pulled up to his navel, and once he's dressed and his toothbrush is safely back where it belongs (down the throat of the plastic T-Rex that guards the sink) they go to his room and get in bed.

Ian picks the books he wants her to read and stacks them in her lap in the precise order he wants her to read them in.

"No Grinch?" she asks.

"No."

"Why not?"

"The Grinch is dad's book."

Emma feels her eyebrows lift towards her hairline as if they were jerked upwards by a string. "_Dad's_ book? Are you saying your dad reads the Grinch better than I do?"

"Yea—_you_ read _Amelia Bedelia_ better though," he says with a grin.

"I guess that's fine then," Emma concedes. "What else do I read better than your dad?"

"These ones," Ian says, and pats the pile of books in her lap.

Emma snorts. "Alright, point taken."

Ian snuggles into her side and Emma starts reading, _Gingerbread Baby_ and then _Snowmen at Night_, followed by _I Need a New Butt!_ and two _Berenstain Bears_ books. Emma thinks Ian's asleep, until he asks, in a small voice, "Are you and dad going to get a baby?"

Emma closes the book in her hands delicately, taking her time, gathering her thoughts and her courage, and looks down to where Ian's face is pressed against her arm. "If we did get a baby," she says carefully, "would that bother you?"

He shrugs, but turns his face, hiding it.

Emma lays her hand on his head, fingers threading through his hair. She needs to reassure him without revealing the truth—because she's not ready to tell him the truth, and because she can't tell him about the baby without Killian.

"You know that if your dad and I ever have another baby, nothing would change, right?" she whispers. "We'd still love you and you'd still be special."

He doesn't respond, so Emma lifts her arms and wraps them around his shoulders, engulfing him.

"I love you, Ian," she murmurs. "And your dad loves you too. Everything's gonna be alright."

She holds him until he falls asleep, then gently eases herself out of his bed, tucks him under the covers with Roger and Mr. Jim, and turns out the light.

As she returns to her and Killian's bedroom, she runs her hand down the doorjamb, over the growth marks inscribed there that she magically transported from her old apartment in Boston. Soon there'll be a third set of lines, and if it's a girl maybe she can lighten up the predominantly black, green, and blue color palette with some pink and purple.

In the bathroom, she strips her shirt off and turns sideways. Her stomach is visibly more round, a soft continuous curve from her ribs to her pubic bone. It's noticeable to her, but probably not to anyone else. And that's fine. Emma doesn't need people cooing over her bump or—fuck, or _touching_ it.

Only Killian can do that. Killian, and later Henry and Ian, if they decide they want to.

(Ian will probably be all over it, once they've told him and he's actually used to the idea.)

Emma finishes putting her pajamas on and gets in bed. She reads until she falls asleep, but she wakes up again when Killian gets under the covers with her.

"Did you check on Ian?" she asks.

"Aye, he-" Killian huffs a laugh. "He asked me-"

"He's awake?"

"He was, Swan—it was my fault. I accidentally woke him." He kisses her cheek softly, reassuringly.

"Okay. What did he ask you?"

"He said, _'If you and mom get a baby, can it be a girl baby?_'."

Emma rolls her eyes. "That's your fault, you know."

"Aye, I know. I shouldn't have said what I said earlier." He sighs regretfully and settles against her. "Do you think we should tell Ian about the baby tomorrow as well?"

"No," Emma says. "Just Henry. I'm not ready to tell Ian yet."

Killian kisses her again, this time behind her ear. "Whenever you're ready, Swan, I'm here."

"I know." Emma finds his hand and threads their fingers together, then moves their joined hands to her belly, placing them just below her navel, cradling the baby, wherever it is in there.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I truthfully don't feel like these past few chapters have been my best writing, but I fear stagnation more than I dislike imperfection, so I am pushing ahead despite this feeling. I think I am just in a funk. There are so many things happening in this story that I am eager to get to and I'm going to keep writing until I get to them. Thank you all for sticking with me and for your truly wonderful comments that are the fuel that keeps the fire inside of me burning!!!

Ian slept through the night again, which to Emma still feels like a miracle. She can't completely wrap her head around what the Apprentice described, the whole astral projection thing.

(The whole her son's soul leaving his body and wandering away while he sleeps _thing_.)

Mostly it's just...too big. Too terrifying. And she keeps going back to all the what ifs. What if the Shadow had gotten him? Or the Black Fairy? What if he'd dreamt his soul right into the sea during those nightmares he had after he was kidnapped by Blackbeard—Ian could have drowned in his bed in his sleep and neither Emma nor Killian would have had any clue what was happening.

Emma's almost _grateful_ for the six spiders the Black Fairy sent: they prevent her from thinking about Ian's dreams too much, at least for as long as she's out in the woods.

They drop Ian at school, and then spend four hours searching the farms surrounding the town—to absolutely no avail: both the occupied and unoccupied farms are clear, and no one claims to have seen anything out of the ordinary.

"The cliffs then?" Emma asks, stomach turning once again at the prospect.

"The cliffs or...farther," Killian responds, squinting westward at the horizon; with the woods at their back, there's nothing but snow-covered fields and gently rolling hills for as far as the eye can see, all the way until the next dark line of trees, sitting at the foot of some low mountains. "Where's the border, anyway?"

"I don't know," she admits. Sometimes she forgets that there's more to Storybrooke than Main Street and the woods. "We'd have to ask my mom or Regina. There's probably a map in the mayor's office or something."

They call a break at noon and head back into town to rest, warm up, and eat lunch. Robin and the Merry Men go to Granny's, but Emma and Killian go home to wait for Henry to arrive; Emma's just finished the decaf black tea that's about the closest thing she's allowed to coffee nowadays when David's truck pulls up in front of the house.

"Here we go," she mutters to herself. She gave David permission to fill Henry in on everything that's been happening, and she expects Henry to be pretty mad at her for keeping it a secret from him.

"What should I do, love?" Killian asks.

"You're staying here," Emma reminds him. They talked about how Emma wanted to tell Henry about the baby and Killian offered to be somewhere else for that conversation if Emma wanted him to be, but Emma wants him there beside her—he _belongs_ beside her, telling their baby's oldest big brother that he's about to be a big brother again.

Emma hears the door of David's pickup slam shut, and then the wooden clack of the gate being thrown open; she sets her empty mug in the sink and braces herself, just as Henry's stomping footsteps reach the top of the porch and he bursts through the front door.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he demands loudly.

"Nice to see you too," she returns calmly, taking a moment to absorb the sight of him; he's thinner than he was in the summer, and he's letting his hair grow out—Emma wouldn't describe it as _long,_ but it's long for Henry.

"_Mom_." His bookbag slips from his shoulder to the floor and he crosses into the kitchen. "Why didn't you tell me about the portals and the spiders?"

"Because you had exams."

"Fuck my exams!" he spits. "A giant fucking spider attacked you and you didn't think I should know about it?"

Emma folds her arms, going full stern mom. "Of course I thought you should know. But I didn't see the point in telling you while you were at school."

"Didn't see the point? Mom! I could have come home and helped!"

"And what?" Emma asks, sharply now. "Ditched your exams? Failed all your classes? You're not dropping out of school just because a few giant spiders attacked Storybrooke."

His nostrils flare and his lip curls in a retort, but as quickly as his anger reared up it deflates. He sighs in defeat, shoulders drooping. "Mom, please. I _want_ to help."

Emma drops her arms back to her side. "I know, Henry. I know you do. And it's not that I don't think you're capable, it's just that I don't want this to be your life."

His brow furrows, quizzically. "I don't understand."

"I want you to go to school because I want you to be able to choose the life for yourself that _you_ want," she explains. "I didn't have that luxury." _A Curse determined my life for me. A Curse and a prophecy and destiny and magic._ "But you do and I want you to take advantage of it."

He stares at her for a long moment, the crease between his eyebrows growing steadily deeper as he chews his bottom lip. Before he can respond, however, David enters the house, lugging Henry's suitcase with him.

"Shit, sorry grandpa," Henry swears, and rushes to take his bag from David's hands.

"It's alright, I don't mind," David says. He looks around cautiously at Emma, and then Killian. "Everything okay?" he asks lightly.

"All good," Emma says. "Thanks, dad."

David nods and smiles at her. "I'm going to meet up with Robin and help him and the Merry Men start searching the cliffs."

"Be careful," Killian warns.

"Let us know if and when you find something," Emma says. She gets that her dad and Robin and the Merry Men can handle things but the idea of giant spiders in caves...it feels far more dangerous than hunting them down in the woods.

"I wanna go with grandpa," Henry says.

He's practically vibrating with urgency and it kills Emma to have to tell him no. "Sorry, kid. I need you here. There's something else we need to talk about."

"Can't we do it later?"

"No. We need to do it before Ian gets home."

Henry tenses. "Is Ian okay?"

"Ian's fine," Emma assures him quickly, although the moment the words are out of her mouth she feels like it's a lie, so she adds, "He's—actually there's something we need to tell you about him too, but he's technically okay for right now. I actually want to talk to you about something else." She takes a deep breath. "Come sit down."

David waves goodbye and slips out the front door. Emma sits at the table, fighting the little tremble that her stomach's currently doing; Killian sits beside her, and Henry takes the chair across from them.

"What's going on?" he asks warily.

It's almost exactly 7 years since Emma had to sit Henry down and have this same conversation. He was 12 then, in 7th grade, in a new school he'd been at for barely a month—hell, they'd only been in Boston for a month, though neither of them knew it at the time. She ordered a pizza and bought a 2-liter of Pepsi from the corner store two blocks away, rented the entire original Star Wars trilogy...

"_Henry, you're...going to be a big brother_."

After days of deliberation that's how she'd decided to phrase it. She wanted to take the emphasis off the biological aspect, pretend like it was some sort of immaculate conception and hopefully avoid any questions pertaining to the _how_ of the whole situation because she didn't want to tell her 12-year-old that _how_ was a one night stand at a Halloween party with a complete stranger in a pirate costume.

Henry was surprised by her announcement—which was understandable—and he _did_ have questions, all of which he asked quietly while they sat on the couch watching Star Wars, the movie providing the perfect excuse not to meet each others' eyes.

_"Who's the baby's dad?"_

_"Someone you've never met."_

_"Is he going to live with us?"_

_"No. He's...he's not going to be around."_

Emma looks at Henry now—really _looks_ at him. She can see the little boy he used to be, past the stubble, underneath the sharper angles of his cheeks and jaw. He's changed a lot over the past 7 years, but one thing that hasn't changed is his heart—he has the same compassionate soul he's always had. He'll probably be as surprised as he was before, and he might even be a little embarrassed—now that he knows how things work—but Emma knows he'll be as good of a big brother to the new baby as he was and still is to Ian.

"We need to tell you something," she says. She looks over at Killian. He smiles at her, softly, the expression of quiet joy he wears whenever they talk about the baby, the expression that always manages to make her forget—at least momentarily—about the Black Fairy. She returns Killian's smile, then turns back to Henry. "I'm pregnant."

"Oh," Henry says, eyebrows lifting in surprise. "Oh. Okay. I thought..." He grins. "I thought you were going to tell me something bad."

A tight feeling in her chest that she wasn't even aware of loosens. She knows he's more mature now, but she wasn't expecting-

"Do you know if it's a boy or a girl yet? When are you due?"

She wasn't expecting _excitement_. Something blooms inside of her, a feeling that's relief and happiness and fierce affection all at once.

"The baby's due at the end of July," she says. "We won't find out if it's a boy or a girl until sometime in January though."

"Ok, well, for the record, I think you should have a girl this time."

"I'll try my best."

Henry's smile fades suddenly. "Wait, what about...what about the Black Fairy and everything?"

"Yea," Emma sighs. "Yea that's going to be a bit of a problem."

"Can you...how are you going to fight her if you're...you know?"

"Hey, I was working as a recovery agent until my 3rd trimester."

Killian makes a strange sound, head snapping around dangerously fast. "What?"

"It's fine," Emma declares with a shrug. "Ian turned out fine."

"You told me Ian came early," Killian reminds her.

"Yea, but not like,_ early_ early. The type of early that's still okay."

Killian looks startled and they'll probably have a conversation about this later.

"Speaking of Ian," Henry says. "Did you tell him yet?"

"No, so don't say anything."

Ian didn't ask them any more questions about babies that morning, so Emma hopes he's forgotten about it for the time being. She wants him to enjoy his first Christmas with Killian, and after that they can tell him all about how they betrayed him by conceiving another child.

Henry nods and leans back in his chair. "Ok, what's the other thing you wanted to tell me about Ian?"

\---

The Merry Men don't find anything along the cliffs, and as her fear over what would happen to the Merry Men if they had to search the caves on their own fades,, a new fear rushes into the gap: _where the fuck is that last spider?_

It's definitely holed up somewhere. But where?

And why?

What's its purpose this time, if not to attack them? Is it spying on them? Scouting for entry points or weaknesses or something?

She mulls it over until Killian brings Ian home from school, because once Ian flings his bookbag off and screeches "HENRY!", the decorating frenzy begins and spider and portals and the Black Fairy are moved to the metaphorical back burner.

While Ian and Henry get the snacks and the music ready, Emma and Killian go upstairs to the empty room in the back corner of the house where, currently, the storage bins of holiday decorations are being kept.

"I've got it, love," Killian says when Emma bends to pick up a box. He moves her gently aside and picks the box up himself.

He's been extra protective lately, from the way he anxiously monitors her eating and sleeping habits to how he literally almost put his hook through Gilbert Whitehand's skull when Gil accidentally let the tree branch he was holding out of Emma's way slip through his fingers and it smacked her square in the chest. It's...not Emma's favorite, but she's trying really hard to be cool with it and give him space to do whatever he feels like he needs to do; she knows he's just as anxious as she is about literally everything right now.

Plus, deep down, it is sort of heartwarming.

But she does pick up a box, after Killian leaves the room.

"The point was for you not to carry anything," Killian chides when he turns on the stairs and sees her behind him, box in hand.

"It's light," Emma says, and lifts it high over her head to demonstrate; the only thing inside are the Christmas stockings and a handful of the extra delicate ornaments. Killian shakes his head, and on their next trip he carries two boxes at once—the heaviest ones in the pile—and makes sure she leaves the room ahead of him (empty-handed).

After they have the boxes set up in the living room, they check on Henry and Ian in the kitchen. Henry's stirring a pot of hot chocolate on the stove, and Ian's pouring a bag of red and green M&M's into a bowl.

"That's a lot of sugar," Killian observes, eyeing the spread of cookies and candy laid out on the table.

"Yep," Ian chirps, scooping out a handful of M&M's and gleefully shoving them into his mouth.

"Welcome to Christmas tree decorating night in the Swan household," Emma says, spreading her arms wide.

It's their tradition, an evening spent gorging themselves on candy and cookies and hot chocolate while they listen to Christmas music and decorate the apartment.

"Actually," she amends. "I guess it's the Swan-Jones household, now."

She didn't mean anything by it in particular, but she sees how her words strike Killian, sees the fleeting gleam of hope in his eyes, there and then gone in a heartbeat.

Emma thinks she knows what it was; they haven't talked about first names for the baby, let alone what it's last name will be—but it's something she's given thought to, and...and she's made her decision already. She made it without ever really thinking about it, honestly. But this isn't how she was planning on bringing it up. And she _can't_, anyway, because Ian's there and he doesn't know about the baby yet.

Killian's silent for a moment, and Emma thinks _he_ might bring it up, but he doesn't, so Emma hands him a sugar cookie with a picture of a snowman on it, and says, "Alright, brace yourself. It's about to start looking like all of Santa's reindeer threw up in here."

(She'll tell him about her decision when the time is right.)

They go into the living room and begin unpacking the boxes. Some of the decorations they put up are old—like the window clings Ian applies haphazardly to all the windows and the ramshackle ceramic Christmas village that's held together mostly by Elmer's glue; but some of it is new, like the garlands of evergreen boughs and fairy lights that she drapes along the mantle and around the stairs railing.

The last thing Emma takes out are the stockings. "Here," she says, handing the pile to Killian, draping them over his hook arm. "Can you hang these by the fireplace?"

"Aye, love."

He turns and gets about two steps in before he realizes what he's holding, then he turns slowly on his heel to face her, fingering the fabric of the top stocking. It's plain and red, like the three beneath it, but unlike the other three its brand new, the red redder and the white whiter, and the name on the cuff, spelled out in gold glitter, is _Killian_.

"Emma, when did you..."

"A while ago," Emma says. She's lucky she had a moment of clarity way back in November, otherwise she probably would never have gotten around to it in time. "Do you remember the night you came home and asked why there was glitter in the shower?"

Killian snorts, eyes still locked on his stocking. "Aye, I do. That was...this was that?"

"Yea. Ian and I made it together—I mean, not the whole stocking. Just the name."

Emma wrote Killian's name with glue, using the same careful cursive script she'd used with the other three, and then Ian poured on the glitter—a little too enthusiastically, naturally.

"Do you like it?" Ian asks, wrapping his arms around Killian's waist, cheek resting on Killian's hip. He's grinning, and he's holding one of the figurines from the Christmas village that he's definitely not supposed to be touching because he's the reason most of them are broken in the first place—but Emma's too distracted by the brightness of Killian's eyes to deal with the danger her little ceramic villager is in.

"Aye, lad," Killian says, moving his hand to the back of Ian's head, cupping it gently. "I love it. Thank you."

Ian grins. "Now Santa can put cool stuff in your stocking, too!"

"Oh? Like what?"

"Candy and toys. Ooh, and socks—_cool_ socks though, not lame socks."

Ian leads Killian to the fireplace, and Emma makes a mental note to make sure everyone gets a pair of _cool socks_ from Santa.

She sits on the floor beside Henry and starts helping him sort the ornaments while Killian hangs the stockings, following the order dictated by Ian: Emma first, then Killian, then Henry, then Ian.

"That better not be by age," Emma comments. "I'm not older than your dad."

"I know," Ian says. "He's like...300 or something."

"200," Killian growls. "Barely."

Henry lifts his head. "I thought you said 191."

"I did. I am."

"You're so old," Ian chortles, not quite under-his breath.

"Oi," Killian barks. "Mind your manners."

"Yea, Ian," Henry quips. "You're supposed to _respect_ the elderly."

They descend into giggles, and Killian bristles like a cat.

Emma clears her throat. "Santa's watching, you know."

Ian's cuts himself off so fast he nearly chokes on his own tongue. "He is?" he gasps.

"Yup," she says, but doesn't elaborate.

Ian goes pale and quiet, and after two minutes of watching him meekly help her untangle a strand of lights, she announces it's time to decorate the tree.

It doesn't actually take four people to string up the lights but they make it work—Ian's too short to reach the top branches anyway, so Killian stands behind him and does the top part on their side and then lets Ian do the lower branches when it's at his level. The lights are the same old multicolored ones she's been using for 7 years; they're mismatched, some pastel and some not, and one of them blinks. The tinsel garland is next, and then the boxes of plain ornaments: red, gold, and silver orbs that came together in a set and are mostly intact.

The special ornaments are the final touch. Emma's favorite are all the handmade ones from Henry and Ian; she puts those on herself while Henry arranges his collection of Star Wars ornaments and Ian hangs up Spiderman and the four Ninja Turtles. Killian stares at Ian's "Baby's 1st Christmas" ornament for a long time, the one with a photo of Ian in the center, before Emma nudges him and tells him to hang it.

The ceramic penguin family with Emma, Ian, and Henry's names on their bellies comes next, and then all the goofy ones they've collected throughout the years: the Christmas T-Rex, a foam Gingerbread man with a bite taken out of his head, a piece of bacon, a hot dog and a hamburger, Santa riding a unicorn, and a flat wooden swan.

"Where's the Christmas pickle!?" Ian asks, on his knees beside the empty boxes of ornaments.

"Oh, I already hid the Christmas pickle," Emma says smugly.

Ian and Henry looks at each other, then Henry tears from the room and races around the stairs and into the hallway that leads to the den.

"HEY!" Ian bellows, and races after him.

"What, pray tell, is the Christmas pickle?" Killian asks, staring after Henry and Ian.

"It's another tradition," Emma says. "There's some old story about it being customary in Germany to hide a pickle in the tree and the first person to find it gets an extra present."

"I'm assuming it's also tradition for _you_ not to hide it in the tree?"

"Correct."

"And whoever finds the pickle gets an extra present?"

"Whoever finds the pickle gets to open one of their presents early."

"Ah. And who usually finds the pickle?"

"Well, Henry, obviously—but last year I sort of cheated so that Ian found it first. And this year he understands the whole thing a little better, so..."

Killian grins. "Where did you hide it this year?"

"That's cheating. I can't tell you where it is. You have to look for it."

"Me?" His eyes go wide with astonishment. "You want me to look for it?"

"Uh-huh. You've got about an hour before you have to leave for work. Think you can find it before then?"

Killian narrows his eyes, then he grins and dashes after the boys.

\---

Nobody finds the pickle.

Which, if they did, would ruin the fun a bit.

Killian goes to work. Emma, Henry, and Ian clean up the living room and return the empty storage boxes to the second floor, then argue about what to order for dinner. Emma's suggestion of Chinese is ignored—much to her dismay—and they end up ordering pizza.

They eat on the floor in the front room an turn out all the lights except for the lights on the tree. Ian's quiet, subdued by the atmosphere. Idly, he scratches his wrist with his free hand—it's the only side-effect Emma's noticed from the Apprentice's binding spell: itchiness in the places where the Apprentice put unicorn's blood.

After dinner Ian goes to check what movies are on TV, and Henry helps Emma cleans up.

"Thanks for not doing this without me," he says quietly.

Emma halts halfway to the trashcan. "What? What are you talking about?"

Henry shrugs, his hands sliding into his pockets. "At school I feel kind of...far away."

"Henry, what I said earlier, I'm not..." Emma sighs and dumps the plastic plates she's holding into the trash. "I'm not trying to push you out of our lives."

"I know, mom. And I...I understand. It just kind of sucks to be away from home when there's so much happening."

Emma crosses the kitchen and steps close. "You being away is really hard for us, too," she murmurs, putting a consoling hand on his arm. "I know that everything got turned upside down in the summer...I thought sending you to school was the right thing to do."

"You said..you said that you want me to choose the life I want for myself," he says.

"Yea, Henry, I do."

"What if I decide _this_ is the life I want?"

"If that's what you decide then that's what you decide."

He stares at her for a long moment, then says, "There's a catch, isn't there?"

"Yes," she answers with a smile. "The catch is that you're not allowed to drop out of school until you have an actual plan."

"A plan?"

"Staying here and fighting monsters isn't a plan. What are you going to do when you're _not_ fighting monsters?"

"Like, for a living?"

"Yea."

"Uh, I mean, I could work at the Crow's Nest?"

"You're too young."

Henry rolls his eyes. "Ok, I can work at the station with you then. I can be a deputy-"

"Still not old enough, kid."

"_C'mon_," he huffs.

"I'm serious—but do you see what I mean now? Do you really want to stay here and work part-time in the library or something your whole life on the off chance that there's gonna be some new monster to fight every week?"

"I don't know. Maybe."

"Well, until you know for sure you're staying in school. But the moment you tell me you found your path and you have a plan for following it...I'll support you."

"_Fine_," he says, unhappily. Emma knows this isn't the end of this particular conversation, it's just a pause.

(A pause until he can build a stronger case.)

\---

Emma's awoken later that night by Killian sliding into bed with her.

"Look what I found, Swan."

Dangling from his finger is the Christmas pickle, metallic green and plastic and 100% made in China.

"Mm, you found it," she says sleepily.

"Aye, love. I did. Right where you left it for me to find."

She smirks into her pillow, neither confirming nor denying his accusation.

Killian chuckles and nuzzles her neck. "Do I get to choose what I want for my reward?"

"Maybe," she says, breathlessly because his hand is wandering, fingers skimming over her hip, tracing the valley of her waist up and over her ribs and then along the underside of her breast. She can't help the sigh that slips between her lips, nor can she help the arcing of her back. "Killian. The door."

It's wide open. If Ian were to walk in, or if Henry decided to come downstairs...

"I'm not stopping now, Swan," he growls against her shoulder. "I'll be quiet, I promise."

\---

Emma falls asleep again, after, but she's awoken almost immediately—again by Killian.

"Thank you, love," he says.

"Hm? For what?"

"For tonight. For the tree and the decorations, and...and everything."

His arms tighten around her and Emma feels him press his face into her hair. She frees her hand from the blanket and trails it down his arm until she finds his fingers.

"You're a part of this family, Killian. All of our traditions are yours now, too."

_We'll share our old traditions, and create new ones_.

Killian exhales, expelling a relieved breath that sounds ancient, as if he's been holding onto it his whole life.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone's staying safe and healthy. I am off work for 3 weeks because schools are closed, so I guess I'll be writing (which is not at all a complaint). Enjoy!

_"You're a part of this family, Killian. All of our traditions are yours now, too."_

Killian sighs, what feels like a century's worth of anguish finally unraveling inside of him.

He's known for a while now that this is his home, that Emma and Ian and Henry are his family, but something about tonight drove that knowledge a little deeper, into his very bones.

The pain of his past is more distant now that it ever was, the loss of Liam and Milah the ghostly ache of a childhood injury rather than the agony of a fresh wound. He'll never forget them, but they are his past, just pictures in a book of memories, the anger he felt over their deaths no longer the driving force behind his actions—no longer the justification for his very _existence_.

He has Emma now; Emma and Ian and Henry and the baby. _They_ are his reason for living, and somehow a silly red stocking with his name written on it in glitter makes him feel that very strongly.

Killian closes his eyes and clutches Emma closer, burying his face against her shoulder, his nose to her skin, breathing her in with every breath; he can tell by her own breathing that she's already asleep, and slumber is beginning to tug heavily at the edges of his mind when he hears something.

He's alert in an instant, aware a sound awoke him but unsure _what_ the sound was. Regardless, his first instinct is that it's Ian. The Apprentice said his binding spell would wear off eventually—Killian didn't think it would be this soon, but neither is he surprised. He leaves Emma's side, puts a t-shirt and a pair of flannel pajama pants on, and heads towards Ian's room.

In the hallway he hears another sound and halts. Someone just pattered across the entryway, from the kitchen to the front room—definitely Ian then, because Henry doesn't _patter_.

Neither, Killian thinks, do astral-projecting sleepwalkers.

His anxiety recedes and curiosity replaces it. He descends the stairs to the first floor silently, fingers skimming lightly along the top of the evergreen garland that Emma decorated the railing with. The multicolored lights they draped the Christmas tree with are on, creating a warm, mottled glow for Killian to follow into the front room.

Ian is indeed the culprit. He's perched on the couch with a bowl of red and green M&M's in his lap, and he startles a bit when Killian turns the corner. Then he grins.

"What exactly do you think you're up to?" Killian asks.

"Eating M&M's," Ian replies innocently.

"I can see _that_. I was asking what makes you think you're _allowed_ to eat M&M's at 3 in the morning?"

"Because I'm hungry. Want one?" He holds one of the candies up between thumb and forefinger and gives it a single, enticing waggle.

Killian's fully aware that the gesture is meant to disarm him, but he decides to play along. He plucks the M&M from Ian's grasp and pops it into his mouth, then joins him on the couch; he slings his arm along the top of the cushions and Ian shifts closer, insinuating himself—as is his custom—into Killian's personal space.

They eat M&M's in silence for a while, Killian following Ian's lead and extracting one M&M from the bowl at a time, choosing a green one for every red one that Ian selects and vice versa; he doesn't think Ian notices the pattern, but it amuses Killian until what feels like an appropriate amount of time has passed, then he asks, as casually as he's able to, "What are you doing down here anyway, lad? What woke you up?"

Ian shrugs. "I don't know. I just woke up."

Killian backtracks in his mind, contemplating the timing, hoping it wasn't him and Emma that woke Ian—he's _certain_ they were quiet, and as Ian's both a heavy sleeper and has never been awakened by Emma and Killian's lovemaking before (even on the occasions when they were accidentally louder than was prudent) something else must have roused him.

"Did you have a bad dream?" he inquires, reaching over to run his fingertips gently along Ian's brow, brushing his bangs to the side.

Ian leans into his hand, and nods.

"What was it about?"

Silence follows his question, but Killian feels Ian take a deep breath, gathering himself.

"Ian?" he prompts. "It's alright, lad. You can tell me."

Ian tilts his head back, regarding Killian with a miserable frown. "I had a dream that Santa brought me coal," he says.

Killian bites back a laugh, but nearly chokes on it entirely when he notices the glint of tears in Ian's eyes.

"It—that was just a dream, Ian," he blurts hurriedly. "Santa's not going to bring you coal."

Ian's frown wobbles, and Killian remembers the boy's letter to Santa, how sincere it was, how deeply Ian believes Santa Claus is real.

"Come here, lad," he murmurs, opening his arms. Ian climbs fully into his lap and hugs his neck; Killian wraps him up, resting his cheek atop Ian's head. Ian doesn't cry, but Killian feels him tremble whenever he draws breath, feels the tension in his small frame. He rubs soothing circles against Ian's back, and gradually that tension eases. 

Killian wishes it could always be this easy, wishes that Santa bringing coal is the worst nightmare he'll ever have to chase away.

He knows it won't be, but for now he'll take the victory.

_And if Santa is real and he does bring you coal, I'll kill him myself_.

Ian falls asleep, but Killian remains awake. He doesn't know what happened to the bowl of M&M's and he's too afraid to find out, so he stares at the tree, letting his thoughts wander. His eye catches on an ornament, the ceramic star that says "Baby's 1st Christmas" and has a photo of Ian in the center.

Killian's seen Ian's baby photos—looked at them hundreds of times, at this point—but it still astonishes him that even as a babe Ian looked like him; the color of his eyes, the shape of his mouth, the curve of his ears. The new babe will be about the same age on its 1st Christmas as Ian was for his, and Killian wonders who it will look like, him or Emma.

(Secretly he hopes the Bean resembles Emma, hopes it has her green eyes and round cheeks.)

(_Hopes its a girl_.)

Part of him wants to put the sonogram on the tree, to include the baby even though it's only the size of a strawberry. His gaze drifts to the stockings hanging along the mantle, imagining a fifth one—his imagination fails him, however, when he tries to picture a name on it, and then he remembers Emma's words from earlier: _"Actually, I guess it's the Swan-Jones household, now."_

Only in the quiet moments before he falls asleep at night—and only in the privacy of his own mind—has he considered what they might name the baby, and his musings always end abruptly whenever he begins pairing first names with last names.

He wants the baby's last name to be Jones, and he...he wants Ian's last name to be Jones as well.

It's a male thing, maybe, his desire to declare ownership of Ian—well, _ownership_ isn't the correct word, really. It's more that he wants to take responsibility for his son. Perhaps it's foolish, perhaps it's unnecessary, but he wants it all the same.

Only, he can't bring it up—he doesn't know how to or even if he _should_. He's afraid he'll hurt Emma somehow, or damage something between them; she raised Ian on her own for 5 years, and if she desires his surname to remain Swan in recognition of that, then Killian won't argue.

The baby, on the other hand...Killian will be devastated if Emma doesn't want its last name to be Jones. It will feel like rejection.

He looks to the stairs, a bubble of ear expanding in his chest—and then quickly deflating.

It doesn't matter.

It doesn't matter because even if Emma wants the baby's last name to be Swan, Killian's still going to be here—he's still going to prove to her every moment of every single day that he wants to be here, that he'll _fight_ to be here. And maybe one day he'll manage to convince her that _Jones_ is a name worth bearing—for their children, and maybe also for her.

His stomach takes flight, lifted by the thought of Emma one day honoring him by taking his last name. But he can't ask her to marry him. Not now. It's not the time. He doesn't want her to think that he's asking because he feels obligated, because of the baby.

But it's..it _is_ another thing he wants. When he knows Emma wants it as well—when he knows she's _ready_.

Killian closes his eyes and lays his head back, trying to calm himself, to put all the joyful, tingly feelings back in their box. He feels Ian, heavy against his chest, his weight grounding Killian to the moment, reminding him of other, more pressing concerns.

_Like how to assure a 6-year-old that Santa won't bring him coal for Christmas._

There's a fear there that Killian's familiar with—not the fear over the loss of gifts, but the fear of rejection, of a pronouncement of unworthiness.

Killian doesn't want Ian to feel that. He _shouldn't_. He has a mischievous streak, to be sure, but he's a good lad with a good heart.

A noise from above drags Killian once more away from the edge of sleep. He opens his eyes and tracks the sound, until a moment later Henry descends the stairs.

"Hey," Killian says, when Henry reaches the bottom.

Henry jolts, hands jerking up reflexively in a defensive gesture that Killian recognizes. "Oh," he says, hands falling back to his sides. "Hey."

"Why are you up?"

"Uh..."

Something about Henry's inexplicably guilty expression is answer enough.

"You haven't gone to bed yet, have you?"

"No," Henry admits.

"Ian has a game in the morning," Killian says, pointedly.

"I know."

"You're going."

"I_ know_. I'm going to bed now. I just needed a glass of water, first."

He takes a step towards the kitchen, then stops and turns back around, eyes falling to Ian.

"Is Ian okay?"

Killian smiles. "Aye, lad, he's fine. He just had a bad dream."

Henry steps closer, crossing from the entryway in the front room. "Like, a bad dream where his soul leaves his body and goes to visit the Black Fairy?"

"More like a bad dream in which Santa brings him coal instead of presents for Christmas."

Henry grins, and then collapses onto the couch beside Killian and Ian. "That's the worst. I used to have that dream."

"And did Santa ever bring you coal in real life?"

"You mean did my _mom_ ever bring me any coal?" Henry lifts a brow, then abruptly wrinkles his face in disgust. "Ew, what am I sitting on?"

"M&M's," Killian replies.

Henry reaches a hand underneath his thigh and removes it full of semi-melted chocolate. "M&M's? _Why_?"

"Ian. Do you mind brushing them onto the floor for me before they stain the upholstery and your mother kills me?"

Henry grumbles but obeys. "Guess I'm not eating those for breakfast," he mutters.

"You shouldn't be eating those for breakfast anyway."

"I mean, I _was_ going to put them in a pancake." Henry sighs and leans into the cushions. "What time is Ian's game tomorrow?"

"8:30. You should get to bed."

"I will in a minute." In contrast to his words, he sinks more deeply into the couch.

Killian decides not to argue and instead follows Henry's lead, laying his head back and letting his eyes drift halfway shut. "The tree looks nice," he comments.

"I think it needs more ornaments."

"More?" To Killian, the tree seems full to bursting.

"Yea. We usually add a few new ones every year, and we haven't done it yet."

"Ah."

"Yea—oh!" He whips around to face Killian. "Have you found the pickle yet?"

"Erm, no. I haven't." Killian's cheeks heat with the lie, and he's grateful for the dim, multicolored lighting. He knows Emma hid the pickle with his best bottle of rum and his stash of Sour Patch Kids on purpose so that he'd be the one to find it, but he has no intention of letting that ruin the boys' fun. The pickle is currently somewhere on his and Emma's bedroom floor, but as soon as he can, he'll hide it again.

Henry scowls and looks away. "Damn. My mom put it somewhere really good this year. I can't find it."

"Mm. Well, keep trying."

"I will. Ian found it first last year and he was a jerk about it for a whole week."

Killian chuckles; he would have done the same, were it him and Liam in Henry and Ian's place.

Ian stirs then and mumbles something about reindeer. Killian holds still until he settles. He should take the boy back up to his bed, let him rest. He's gathering Ian up to do so when Henry asks, "Is Ian really okay?"

"Pardon?"

"You know, the whole dream thing...Astral projection or whatever."

They'd told Henry the bare minimum, and although they'd only spoken the truth they made every effort to downplay the situation as much as possible.

Henry asked no questions earlier, but apparently he hadn't been fooled.

Killian lets out a slow breath and looks down at Ian, his head now resting in the crook of Killian's hook arm. Winter's faded his freckles and darkened his hair to the color of wheat. "He's okay now," Killian says. "But he nearly wasn't."

_He was nearly food for the Black Fairy._

His stomach twists, anger and guilt twin pythons wrestling in his gut.

"Will the Apprentice's spell be enough?" Henry asks.

"No," Killian confesses. "Eventually it will fade."

"And then what?"

"And then we'll have to tell Ian about his power, and he'll have to learn how to control it."

Ian seems so small in his arms; 6-years-old seems so young. The Apprentice called what Ian has a _gift_, but Killian's not so sure—why must a boy Ian's age be burdened so? What twist of fate caused this? Was it merely an accident, Pan's Shadow awakening a power that should have slumbered for another decade? Or is it destiny?

"I don't want anything to happen to him," Henry says quietly.

Killian looks up and meets Henry's gaze, the boy's clever but gentle eyes now hard as stone. "Nothing's going to happen to Ian," Killian promises. "I won't let it."

"You'd better not." One corner of Henry's mouth twitches, but Killian knows he's not joking, and he also knows from experience—from the crack across the jaw Henry gave the Shadow while it wore Killian's face—that Henry's loyalty to Ian eclipses any affection he may have for Killian.

And that's the way it should be.

Killian grins. "About the baby," he says.

Henry's eyes widen, eyebrows jumping to his hairline and mouth falling open. "What about the baby?"

"I can't wait for you to be its big brother."

Henry's eyebrows climb impossibly higher, and his cheeks darken in what Killian assumes is a blush.

"You're going to have to help Ian," Killian continues. "You'll have to teach him how to be a good big brother."

Henry ducks his head suddenly, hiding his face. "I will," he pledges. "I..."

He lifts his head, meeting Killian's gaze again.

"I really am excited for you guys. It's..." He sighs and squeezes his eyes shut. "It's a little weird being 18 and finding out your mom's having another baby, but..." He opens his eyes. "It'll be cool. It'll be nice to have another brother or sister, just as long as you guys don't, like, forget about me or something."

He huffs a laugh, but it doesn't mask his insecurity; Killian sees it in his pinched brows, in the frown tugging at his lips.

"Henry," Killian says firmly. "We're not going to forget about you. Your mother and I having another baby is in no way us trying to-" _How did Emma phrase it?_ "Start over."

Killian sees Henry fall still.

"We're not creating a new family, we're just...adding to it. You, your mother, Ian and I...we're all a family, and the baby is just the newest member." Killian doesn't know where those thoughts or words came from, but they're pouring from his mouth and they feel genuine—they feel _right_. "I wish you were here in Storybrooke with us, lad. I wish your sister could grow up with you the way Ian did, but your mother's right: you need to go out into the world and find your path. You owe it to yourself. We'll always be here for you when you come home."

Henry looks at him silently for a long moment, the worry lining his face seeping away, then he smirks. "Sister, huh?"

"Ah, well..." Heat creeps up Killian's neck. Emma would glare at him or swat his arm if she'd heard that.

Henry just shakes his head and stands. "Alright, I'm headed to bed. See you in the morning."

"Goodnight, lad."

"Goodnight."

Henry shuffles to the stairs. "Oh, about the ornaments," he says, pausing with one foot on the bottom step. "You should pick out the new ones. Me and Ian and mom picked all the others. You need to pick some too."

Killian smiles to himself, and after a few heartbeats he follows Henry up the stairs, carrying Ian with him.


	11. Chapter 11

"No, Swan."

"Killian, c'mon."

Emma tugs on his arm but he plants his feet and does his best impression of a tree.

"I said _no_," he growls.

Henry and Ian join in.

"Killian! Get in the picture with us!" Henry insists, beckoning him from Santa's lap.

"DAD!" Ian bellows, flapping his arms urgently.

"Ho ho ho!" says Santa cheerfully.

Killian glares. "Emma, I will _not_-"

Someone (Killian guesses David) gives him a firm push from behind, and suddenly he's stumbling towards the red and gold throne upon which the Apprentice, clad in a red velvet suit trimmed in white, is seated with Henry and Ian perched on either leg.

"This is ridiculous," he grouses as Emma positions him on the Apprentice's left, just to the side of Henry.

"Yes," Emma agrees, "but look how happy you've made Henry and Ian."

Ian, his hair gelled and combed for—Killian thinks—the first time ever, beams at him; Henry's smirk is visible straight through the back of his head.

"Alright, smile!"directs the young woman behind the camera. She's dressed as an elf and she's far too energetic and Killian decides he hates her.

He, quite possibly, hates everyone in this entire auditorium.

The camera goes off, the flash from the umbrellas blinding him, probably permanently. The moment his vision clears enough to start staggering towards the exit he does, but the bloody elf stops him.

"I, uh, sorry," she says. "I need to take that one again. Not everyone was smiling..."

She looks at him and Killian knows she means him; _he_ wasn't smiling.

Killian stalks back to his place beside Henry and leans in close like Emma is on the Apprentice's other side—behind the elf stand David and Snow, royal overseers of the event, and the thought of walloping David with a practice sword in the warehouse by the docks later in repayment for that shove brings a genuine smile to Killian's face.

The elf snaps another picture, and when she looks at her camera after she grins. "Yep, that's better! Ok, if you just wait over there your picture will be ready in a few minutes."

Henry hops off the Apprentice's lap and strides, chuckling, past Killian; Killian follows, eager to be as far away from Santa and his elf as possible.

There's a small group of other parents and children waiting for their photos as well, standing along the wall of the auditorium beneath the windows. Henry picks a spot and Killian joins him; he turns to Emma only to find she's not there—she's only just leaving Santa's pavilion with Ian.

Killian raises a questioning eyebrow at her when she's within range.

"Ian had a question for the App—ah, for Santa," she explains.

"I asked him if he knows the _real_ Santa," Ian says.

"Does he?"Killian asks.

"He said yes."

"Mm. What else did he say?"

"He said to tell Henry that he needs to go on a diet because-"

"I wasn't even sitting all the way down!" Henry hisses.

"He said you broke his leg."

"I was squatting!"

Ian sticks his tongue out and Henry makes a swipe for him; Ian sidesteps but then has to turn tail and run when Henry lunges. The chase lasts only until the boys reach the other side of the auditorium, where Ian disappears into a forest of stacked chairs, quite literally slipping through the cracks between the wobbly towers. Henry prowls around the perimeter, looking for a way in.

"Think we can just pretend we don't know them until they stop?" Emma wonders.

"Judging by the looks we're receiving I'd say it's too late, love. It appears everyone here is already aware to whom they belong."

"Ugh."

"I'll go get them, Swan."

"I'll get the pictures. Meet you outside?"

"Meet you outside."

\---

The photos are not as horrid as Killian had imagined they would be. The first photo is only of Ian and Henry and Emma gives that one to her parents; the second photo is of the four of them, and that one is hung on the fridge.

Emma snorts at it. "God, he has the cheesiest smile."

"Which one, love?"

Emma opens her mouth but pauses, eyes flicking back and forth between the identical grins plastered on Henry and Ian's faces. "Ok," she concedes. "Good point."

Killian slides his arms arm around her waist from behind, fitting his chest to her back and dropping his chin onto her shoulder. Gently, he lifts his hand and presses it to her belly. "How do you feel?" he murmurs.

"Are you talking to me or the Bean?"

"You," he says, turning his face and kissing her cheek. "I only talk to the Bean when you're asleep."

"Do you really?"

Killian grins. "Truthfully, no—but I read that babies can hear voices in the womb, so perhaps I should start."

He could read to the baby, or sing to it—it's technically too early for the Bean to hear him (the websites said 14 weeks) but he doesn't see why he can't begin now. He has a lot to tell it, about its mother and its brothers, about how much he loves it and how he can't wait to meet it.

(9 months is both too much and not enough time.)

"So, Swan," he says. "You were telling me how you feel..."

"I don't know." She leans into him, tilting her head to rest against his. "_This_ has changed," she says, moving his hand lower, to where the curve beneath her navel is most obvious, "but I don't think I've actually gained any weight."

"You should have-"

"Yes, Dr. Phil, I _know_. I should have gained a few pounds by now."

Her tone is sharp but it's more worried than angry, and her thumb is stroking his knuckles.

"Do you want to go see the doctor?" he asks.

"No, I just...I need to eat more—and I _really_ need to stop throwing up."

The stress of hunting down giant spiders stalled her morning sickness for a few days but didn't ward it off entirely; she vomited more than once in the woods, and she became ill at Ian's hockey game again the day before.

Emma sighs. "I can't wait for the 2nd trimester."

"Me either," Killian agrees. It hurts him to see her suffering. He wishes he could do more than be aggravatingly insistent that she eat and rest.

Emma turns her head, the corner of her mouth curved up in a smirk. "You just wanna know if it's a girl or not," she teases.

"I do," he hums, nuzzling his nose into her neck

"What are you gonna do if it's a boy?"

"Swan, _you_ said it's a girl."

"Yea, and I also said it was just a feeling and that it's too early to tell for sure."

Killian lifts his head from Emma's shoulder. "Is it wrong to hope it's a girl?"

He'll be just as thrilled if the baby's a boy as he will be if it's a girl, but Emma's slip stuck in his mind and he can't help the giddy feeling in his stomach whenever he imagines what having a daughter would be like.

"No, of course it's not," Emma says. "It's just...calling the baby a girl right now just feels like we're getting ahead of ourselves, and I'm..." She curls her fingers around Killian's, the tightening of her arms against her sides forcing Killian's hand more firmly against her belly. "I'm afraid to think too far into the future because if I do then I'll have to think about the Black Fairy, and that's..."

She exhales shakily and turns into his chest, burying her face in his shirt.

"I don't know what we're going to do, Killian," she whispers.

Killian wraps his arms around her shoulders and presses his lips to the top of her head. He doesn't know what they're going to do either, he only knows that whenever he thinks about it he feels as though he's standing on the edge of a deep, dark hole, poised to fall, and the more he ponders what the Black Fairy has planned the more forcefully he feels the tug of gravity, pulling him in.

What keeps him from falling, every time, is thinking further, to his and Emma's future, to when the baby's born, to when they're all safe again.

"I'm sorry, Swan," he says quietly. "I wasn't trying to upset you. Thinking about who the baby will be is what helps keep my mind off all those other things."

Emma nods. "I know. I get it."

"If you want me to stop calling the Bean a girl, I will."

She sniffles. "No, it's...I'm actually sort of hoping it's a girl too."

"Really?"

"Yea—I mean, I probably _shouldn't_, because if it ends up being a boy I'm going to feel really bad for thinking he was a girl the whole time...but yea."

Killian chuckles and kisses her hair again before laying his cheek against her forehead. "What about Ian, love? Did you want him to be a boy or a girl?"

"I went back and forth a little bit."

"Oh?"

"Yea. I kind of wanted a girl, but Henry wanted a little brother, so..."

"So Henry got what he wanted," Killian concludes.

"He did, although if you ask him now he might say he wishes I'd given him a sister, instead."

Right on cue, the boys storm through the front door. Both of them are splattered with snow, and Ian's jeans are soaked to his knees.

"It's not outside," Henry announces, throwing his arms wide.

"I told you!" Ian growls, shoving Henry's hip. "Mom _never_ hides the pickle outside."

"Mom never hides the pickle in the toilet either but that didn't stop you from-"

"Enough!" Killian barks, before he learns something about both the toilet and Ian that he can never unlearn.

"Go put on some dry clothes," Emma says. "We're going shopping."

"Shopping?" Henry asks.

"Christmas shopping," Emma clarifies.

"Oh." Henry slips off his coat and hangs it up, then carefully steps out of his shoes.

"Were you two kissing?" Ian asks, scrunching his nose. His cheeks are flushed from the cold, and there's snow clinging to his hair.

"_Clothes_, Ian."

Grinning, Ian flings his jacket to the floor and leaps out of his boots—he's barefoot again, somehow, and he squelches all the way to the stairs, which are carpeted. Henry follows, dodging the puddles Ian left behind.

When both boys are out of sight, their footsteps solidly overhead, Emma looks at Killian.

"You did hide the pickle, right?" she says.

"Aye, love. I did. It's in the tree."

She blinks, and then, slowly, she smiles. "It's going to take them forever to find it."

Killian smiles back, wickedly. "I know."

\---

Ian's disappointed to find out that the Christmas shopping is not, in fact, for him.

"Ian," Emma reasons. "If you saw everything I'm buying you now then it wouldn't be a surprise on Christmas morning."

"I don't caaaaaaaaaaaaaare," Ian whines, clinging to the side of the shopping cart as if it's the only thing keeping him on his feet.

Emma rolls her eyes until they land on Killian. "Can you take him somewhere so I can get some shopping done?"

"Where should I take him, love?"

"Anywhere."

Killian sighs inwardly and turns to Ian, who's sinking slowly and poutily to the floor. "C'mon, lad. Let's go for a walk."

"I can't," Ian mumbles. "I'm too sad."

"Then I guess I'll have to check out the toy aisle by myself."

Emma gives him a warning look—the dramatic widening of her eyes that indicates he's walking blind and unarmed into enemy territory—but Killian winks; he does not, in fact, have a plan for getting Ian _out _of the toy aisle, but he reckons he can worry about that later.

"C'mon," Killian repeats, holding out his hook. Ian climbs to his feet, managing to make every movement a protest, and lumbers over to take Killian's hook in hand.

"Why don't you pick out a gift for Gideon?" Emma suggests.

Killian quirks an eyebrow in Ian's direction. "What do you say, lad? Shall we try and find a gift for Gideon?"

Ian shrugs, but he allows Killian to lead him away.

"So, what should we get Gideon?"

"I don't know," Ian says dully. "He's a baby, so, like...baby stuff."

"Baby stuff," Killian intones.

"Yea. Stuff for babies."

"So, should we get him a..." Killian glances around desperately and names the first object he sees. "A coffee mug?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because babies don't drink coffee."

"Oh. Well, how about a nice lamp then? Do babies use lamps?"

Ian grins. "No, that's dumb."

"Lamps are dumb?"

"Yea," Ian giggles.

"I'll be sure to tell _your_ lamp that you think it's dumb. Have fun trying to get it to turn on for you after that."

Ian giggles harder.

"What about a power drill?" Killian suggests next, gesturing towards the hardware department. "Or a tape measurer? Do you think Gideon would like a tape measurer?"

"_No_!"

"I'm all out of ideas, then," Killian huffs. "Your turn."

"We should get him a toy!" Ian bursts, as if it's obvious.

"Ah, that's lucky because that's where we were heading anyway, isn't it?"

"But it has to be a _baby_ toy!"

"Where are those?"

"With the baby stuff!"

(Later, Killian will realize that Emma probably sent him on this particular errand on purpose.)

The section dedicated to babies is a part of the store he's never paid any mind to before, so much so that he's actually a tad surprised to be reminded that it exists. Ian drags him over to it and wades into the racks of clothing; Killian halts, overwhelmed.

There are blankets and bibs and microscopic socks, pacifiers and bottles, tiny chairs that bounce or sway or vibrate, all hung with colorful toys that sing or crinkle or jingle.

And the clothes—the clothes are so _tiny_.

Killian remembers Ian's baby pictures, how small and scrunched up he was when he was born.

(How _delicate_ he was.)

Killian wanders through the racks. His eyes are drawn to the pinks and yellows, to the flowers and frills and polka dots, but to be fair to the Bean Killian also looks at all the outfits for baby boys too, all the navy blues and the stripes and sailboats, just in case.

He's staring at a pair of pajamas that have little penguins for feet when Ian returns, a box balanced on his head.

"I think those are for girls," Ian comments.

"Pardon?"

"Gideon's a boy."

"Oh. Right." Killian forces himself to turn his back on the penguin-footed pajamas. "What did you find?"

"This!" Ian lifts the box off his head and presents it to Killian. "It's a piano."

It is indeed a piano, with four differently colored keys that tinkle obnoxiously when Killian taps them.

"Perfect," he says, imagining Ruby's horrified expression when she realizes the piano makes noises well into the wolf's-only range of sound.

(It's a dangerous precedent to set—he could very well receive one of these in a year or two from now—but he'll take his chances.)

\---

The knowing smile Emma gives him when Killian and Ian finally find her and Henry (in the aisle devoted to Christmas decorations) confirm that she did send him to the baby section on purpose.

\---

It's Ian that finds the Christmas pickle, while he's hanging up the ornaments he and Henry forced Killian to pick out at the store. Killian was content with just the pirate ship ornament, but Ian insisted that he also get the skull wearing a pirate hat and the treasure chest.

Killian is allowed to hang up the ornament that looks remarkably like the Jolly Roger while Ian reserves the right to find a home for the other two. Killian watches Ian out of the corner of his eye, knowing that Ian is hanging the treasure chest incredibly close to where he stashed the Christmas pickle, and when Ian gasps Killian grins.

"I found the pickle!" Ian screeches. He pulls it out of the tree and races over to Henry and waves it in Henry's face—Henry, scowling, pushes both the pickle and Ian away.

"_Whatever_," he mutters.

"Alright," Emma says dramatically, hands on her hips. "Ian found the Christmas pickle. You all know what this means."

"Presents!" Ian screeches.

"Present _singular_," Emma says, then turns on her heel and starts for the stairs.

Ian bounces in place the entire time it takes for Emma to return with a wrapped gift in her hands. She offers it to Ian, and Ian gleefully tears the paper off, revealing a 1,000 piece dinosaur puzzle. 

"_Cool!_" Ian gushes, then whirls towards Killian so fast he nearly takes Killian's knees out with the puzzle box. "Dad, look!"

"I see," Killian says. "That looks like fun."

He remembers seeing a similar one in the baby section—similar insofar as both puzzles are of dinosaurs. The one in the store was for babies, with six flat wooden dinosaurs that fit into a wooden board. Perhaps he should get it for the baby? It's rather boyish but Killian doesn't see why a girl can't like dinosaurs. And it would be something for Ian and the baby to bond over, also.

"Do you wanna make it with me?" Ian asks.

Killian feels his smile slip, genuine sorrow tugging heavily at his heart. "I'm sorry, lad, I can't. I have to go to work."

"Actually, I thought maybe you and Henry could make it together," Emma says—to Henry.

Henry, nose in his phone, shakes his head. "Hard pass. I'm going out with Ava tonight."

"Sorry, kid," Emma sighs with a grimace. "Looks like it's just me and you tonight."

"That's okay," Ian says brightly. "Can we do it now?"

"Sure. Go get it set up."

Ian trots the box into the kitchen and plops it on the table.

"That was totally cheap, by the way," Henry says, too quietly for Ian to hear.

"What was?" Emma asks.

"Hiding the pickle in the tree."

"I did that, actually," Killian admits, his hand reaching up of its own accord to tug at his earlobe. "Your mother let me hide the pickle this year."

"Okay, first of all, please don't ever say that again, and secondly-" He scowls at Emma, and hisses, "You should have told me Killian hid it!"

"I didn't think it made a difference," Emma responds with a shrug. "What's the big deal?"

"What's the big deal? That changes everything! Killian's a pirate; he doesn't follow the rules—the tree would have been the first place I looked!"

"Alright, I'm sorry," Emma concedes. "Next year I'll be more clear about who's hiding the pickle."

"For the record," Killian interjects. "I would very much enjoy hiding the pickle again. In fact, I'd love to hide the pickle right now if you'd be so kind as to leave the room-"

"Stop saying 'hide the pickle'!" Henry yells.

"Hide the pickle!" Ian chirps from the kitchen.

Hands over his ears, Henry storms from the room.

\---

When Killian walks into the Crow's Nest he has to step out and then walk back in again.

"Who decorated?" he asks, glowering at the fairy lights strung from the ceiling. They wrap around the entire bar, filling the long, rectangular room with a familiar mottled, multicolored glow.

"I did," Will says, resting his elbows on the bar counter and dropping his chin into one hand. "I got a little bored this morning so I came in to do some work. I found the Christmas lights on your desk."

"And you thought it was okay to just...put them up?"

"Yep."

Killian nods. "Looks good. We should get a wreath for the door, as well."

Will grins. "What about this?" he asks, and ducks down beneath the bar. When he surfaces he has a miniature Christmas tree—also bedecked with lights—in his hands. "What do you thi—what's that face for? Is it too much?"

"Aye, it's too much." He lets his glare soften. "But Ian will love it, so it can stay."

\---

The next morning they send Ian to school with $20 in his pocket for Santa's workshop, and a reminder that it's to be spent on gifts for other people, not on himself.

It's Monday, technically date night, but with Ian at school and Henry pulling a shift at the library until the evening, Killian rather intended to make an entire day of it, starting with breakfast in bed.

They're upstairs and he has Emma's underwear in his teeth when her cell phone rings.

"_Leave it_," he growls.

Emma ignores him, stretching to grab her phone from the bedside table, muttering, "It might be the spider." She looks at the screen, and frowns. "It's Ian's school." She lifts the phone to her ear, still frowning. "Hello?"

Killian pauses, his mouth between Emma's legs, nose brushing her curls, eyes on Emma's face as she listens to the voice on the phone.

After a minute, she sighs. "Alright, I'll be right there." She ends the call and tosses her phone onto the mattress beside her. "You're about to experience another first today," she says. "Your first call to pick up your son from the principal's office."


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dedicating this one to everyone out there who needs a distraction. (It's not fluff though, sorry!)

Emma's not afraid to admit that Ian is...a rascal.

And not always in a cute and charming way.

She's been called to his school plenty of times before, for everything from faking sick (the nurse was a total sucker and Ian knew it) to using swear words in class (correctly, which is actually more Henry's fault than hers) to using a yellow marker to add a stream of urine to one of his classmate's portraits of a unicorn; he's climbed trees he wasn't supposed to at recess, tried to start food fights in the cafeteria, and once he mooned a group of third graders during a fire drill.

Sometimes Ian has reasons for his misdeeds that Emma understands and accepts (like the time he threw another kid's pencil across the room because the kid wouldn't stop scribbling on his math worksheet), but sometimes he's just trying to be funny and it backfires.

This school year's gone smoothly so far and Emma sort of thought maybe all of that behavior was behind them, but apparently Ian is just Ian and he's going to do Ian things no matter what.

(Which is actually reassuring because otherwise she might have had to admit that maybe there _was_ some validity to what everyone says about kids with no father figures.)

On the drive to the school, Emma tries not to wonder too much what could have happened. The secretary gave her no details over the phone, only informed her that Ian was involved in an incident with some other boys and that the principal requested her presence in her office to discuss said incident.

Emma's more resigned than worried. She knows her kid, knows what he's capable of and what he's not capable of and she knows he's not an asshole.

Killian's definitely worrying, though.

He might actually be _fretting_, which is a word Emma's never used before but Killian's face brings it instantly to mind; he's so distracted he doesn't even return the school secretary's greeting.

"Hi," Emma says, for the both of them. "We're here for Ian."

The secretary is a woman in her 40s with flawlessly wavy, caramel-colored hair and snappy outfits that never fail to make Emma feel completely underdressed. She seems Southern, though Emma can't imagine how that's possible unless there's an Enchanted Forest version of Alabama. "Sign in for me please, honey," she says. "Ian's back here."

There's a counter that splits the office in half, behind which is the secretary, the other office clerk, and four boys, two of them on a bench, and two of them in chairs right outside the door to the principal's office.

The two on the bench are Ian and his friend Leo from Misthaven House, but the two sitting in chairs are older, 3rd or 4th grade. The moment Ian sees her he whirls towards the two older boys and spits, "_See_? I told you my mom was coming to arrest you!"

Emma's too bewildered to respond; she's pretty sure she didn't get called to school as the Sheriff, and she's not even on duty anyway (Killian convinced her to take the morning off). She looks between Ian's glare and the older boys' rapidly paling faces, her brain struggling to concoct an explanation for why the four of them are there.

"Ian, baby," the secretary says calmly, "It's not nice to talk like that." She turns back to Emma. "Sign in please. Mrs. Herbert will be with you in a minute."

With a final look at Ian, Emma picks up the clipboard and the pen on the counter. She finds the next available blank space for her to write her name in, but freezes when she sees the name written above it.

_Nemo Dakkar_.

As far as Emma knows, there's only one Nemo in Storybrooke.

She looks up again. Is Nemo here just for Leo, or are the older boys from Misthaven too? Leo's cradling his left wrist in his right hand; is it hurt? Was there a fight? No one looks disheveled enough to suggest there was an actual, physical fight. Maybe just an argument then. Maybe Leo got pushed.

The door to the principal's office opens, cutting off Emma's speculations. Nemo walks out, followed by the principal, a tiny woman with strawberry blonde hair and narrow features who nevertheless looks like she could give birth to a boulder without flinching.

"Thank you for coming in, Mr. Dakkar," she says.

"Of course," Nemo replies. He's holding a watch that is very obviously a child's watch, and when Emma sees it, everything clicks into place.

The watch is Leo's, and the older boys must have taken it from him—that was always a problem in every group and foster home that Emma was ever in. So, the older boys stole Leo's watch—probably at Misthaven, probably the night before or on the bus this morning—and Ian, naturally, got himself involved.

Emma turns to Killian, the thundercloud at her back, and sees the same realization dawning on his face, mixed with the nauseous expression he always gets whenever they encounter Nemo. He's gone totally still, as if he's hoping Nemo won't notice them.

Nemo does notice them, of course, and gives them a wordless nod before addressing his charges.

"I'll speak to you two in a moment," he tells the two older boys. To Leo, he says, "Come." and holds out his hand.

Leo leaves the bench and tucks himself against Nemo's side; Nemo drops his hand onto Leo's shoulder and leads him from the office. He meets Killian's eye on the way out, and Emma suspects that they'll find Nemo waiting for them outside when they leave the school.

With Leo gone, Ian redoubles his glare. One of the older boys, a kid with thick, curly brown hair and freckles, bows his head. Judging by his fidgety hands, he's nervous. The other boy, short-haired and pug-nosed, tilts his chin up and meets Ian's glare with one of his own.

"That's enough," the principal says.

Her voice is quiet but it's like iron. All three boys snap to attention, and Emma feels even her own spine straighten, her body responding to habits she thought were long gone at this point.

"Nathaniel and Alvin, when Mr. Dakkar is finished with you, you may report back to your classroom. Killian, _you_ can wait out here until I'm finished talking to your parents."

If Ian didn't understand how deeply in trouble he was _before_ the principal used his full name, he understands now. He blinks up at Mrs. Herbert and then leans back until his shoulders touch the wall behind the bench.

Satisfied, the principal turns to Emma and Killian.

"Ms. Swan and Mr. Jones, I'll see you now."

Emma registers—distantly—that's it's very professional of her to know that they're neither Mr. and Mrs. Jones nor Mr. and Mrs. Swan. She glances once at Killian before rounding the counter and crossing the office. Ian's eyes follow them, but he remains silent.

Principal Herbert's office is surprisingly more practical and administrative than it is plush or luxurious. She closes the door, then directs Emma and Killian to sit down in the two plain chairs in front of her desk before taking the equally plain chair behind it. Emma sits rigidly, waiting. Killian is still like a thundercloud, quiet for now but looming, ready to burst if necessary.

The principal folds her hands atop her desk, and leans forward. "A teacher caught Ian stealing from another student's locker."

"Oh," Emma says, dismayed. She was hoping Ian's involvement was a little less.._involved_.

"The locker belonged to one of the boys outside, I'm assuming?" Killian asks.

"Yes," the principal answers.

"What did he take?"

"A watch." Mrs. Herbert leans back, her hands falling into her lap. "I spoke to all the boys involved and got their stories. Leo claims that Nathaniel and Alvin stole his watch on the bus to school this morning. Ian claims that he was trying to get the watch back for Leo."

Emma nods. Ian and Leo have grown close over the past few months; Emma would go so far as to say Leo is Ian's _best_ friend.

"Mr. Dakkar confirms that the watch does in fact belong to Leo," the principal continues. "Nathanial and Alvin, however, maintain that they have no idea how the watch got into Nathaniel's backpack."

"Right." Emma tries not to sound _too_ sarcastic, and she thinks Mrs. Herbert _almost_ smiles.

"Mr. Dakkar also confirmed that Nathaniel and Alvin have been caught stealing from other children at Misthaven before."

"So you believe that those two boys stole Leo's watch?"

"I do."

"And you believe that Ian _was_ just trying to get it back for Leo?"

"Correct."

"So, is he...in trouble?"

"I won't punish Ian this time, but-" Mrs. Herbert sighs. "There were better solutions to this problem. If something like what happened today happens again..."

She doesn't need to elaborate. Emma gets it.

"We'll talk to him," Emma promises.

"Please do. This is the first time Ian's been in my office, and I'd prefer it to be the last."

_Me too_.

The principal stands, and Emma and Killian take it as their cue to stand as well.

"It was nice meeting you," Mrs. Herbert says, extending her hand to Emma first, and then to Killian. They shake—Emma's surprised by how strong her grip is for a woman with hands the size of a child's—and go out.

Ian's now the only student in the office, except for a little girl who's sniffling to the secretary about a tummy ache. He hasn't moved from the position he was sitting in when Emma and Killian left. He looks up at her, curious, defiant, and scared all at once. Emma relaxes her expression as much as she can without it seeming like she's not taking the situation seriously, and says, "C'mon kid, let's talk for a second."

"Straight to class afterwards," the principal reminds him.

"Ok," Ian returns quietly, shrinking against Emma's side and remaining there until they're safely in the hallway.

Emma guides Ian out of earshot of the office, then stops and turns to face him, Killian beside her.

"Are you mad?" Ian asks.

"We're not _happy_," Emma says. "But no, we're not mad."

Ian's eyes flick from her to Killian. "Am I in trouble?"

Emma feels Killian hesitate before replying, "No, lad, you're not in trouble."

Ian looks at Emma again. "Mom. They _stole_ Leo's watch."

"I know, kid, I know. I can't arrest them, though."

"Why not?"

"Because they're just kids."

Ian's shoulders hunch and his hands curls into fists. "So what?" he snarls. "They're _bad_, mom. Roland says they steal stuff from other kids all the time!"

A door to their left opens and a class files out, a large group of wiggly, chattery Kindergarteners. The teacher at the front of the line gracefully ignores them, but the students stare as they pass by. Emma takes Ian by the arms and rotates him, so his back is to their audience, and drops to one knee. "We'll talk more about this at home," she says. "Okay?"

Ian stares sullenly, jaw set in a familiar, stubborn pout.

"_Ian_," Killian prompts, in his gravelly, no-nonsense dad voice.

"Fine," Ian huffs, turning his face pointedly towards the wall and glaring at it.

Emma sighs inwardly. She doesn't like leaving things like this, but they don't have the time to talk Ian out of a sulk, either.

"We gotta go, kid," she says. "We'll see you after school. Be good." She stands and kisses his hair, then gives him a gentle push towards his classroom. They'll take him for ice cream after school, try to explain things, try to explain that his heart was in the right place but that good intentions don't justify breaking into another kid's locker, not when there are adults around whose exact responsibility it is to handle that sort of situation.

They watch Ian until he's out of sight before they head for the door. Outside, Killian lets out a breath that sounds like steam released from a tea kettle.

"What's on your mind?" she asks. She knows he's been following her lead, letting her handle things, but he's been uncharacteristically silent.

"I'm angry, Swan," he mutters, tilting his face towards the overcast sky.

"At Ian?"

"No."

"At the principal?"

"No, I'm angry at those boys."

"Yea," Emma agrees. She knew plenty of kids just like them when she was growing up. Looking back on things, she understands why they acted the way they did; it's probably for some of the same reasons Nathaniel and Alvin are doing it, but Emma has less sympathy for those two because Misthaven isn't any of the group homes that Emma grew up in. Misthaven is a _good_ place.

They're halfway across the schoolyard when Killian speaks again. "How d'you reckon Ian knew which locker was theirs?"

"What?"

"The 1st grade classrooms and the 4th grade classrooms aren't on the same floor. How did Ian know which locker belonged to those boys?"

"Oh." Emma hadn't even thought of that, but the answer is obvious now. "I bet Roland told him. I think he's in the same class as those two."

Ian must have asked to leave the classroom—to use the bathroom or the water fountain—and then snuck up to the second floor; did he talk to Roland sometime before that, or did he stand outside the door to Roland's classroom and wave his arms frantically until he got Roland's attention and then beckon him into the hallway?

(Somehow, Emma thinks it's probably the latter scenario.)

"Those must be the boys Roland's told us stories about then," Killian says. "The boys that hit the gym teacher with a basketball."

"Yea, probably."

"Have they...has Robin ever mentioned that they've bothered Roland?"

"No, I don't think so."

Emma would be more upset if Nathaniel and Alvin ever messed with Roland than she would be if they messed with Ian. Roland's a precious soul, and although Emma knows he's tougher than his sweet demeanor suggests, she doesn't think he's as ready to stand up for himself as Ian is—which is not necessarily a flaw, as Ian's maybe a little _too_ ready to stand up for himself.

They pass through the gates that guard the schoolyard and turn left. The Bug is parked beneath a massive elm tree, and standing next to it is Nemo.

"We need a less conspicuous car," she groans quietly.

"You _have_ a less conspicuous car, Swan, you just choose not to drive it."

"Yea, yea." She likes her CR-V, but she's emotionally attached to the Bug and she swears that since they got to Storybrooke it drives like a brand new car. She should probably check out its safety rating though; it might not be an ideal vehicle to drive an infant around in.

(Plus, she doesn't see why Killian can't have his _own_ car, something sleek yet family-friendly.)

Killian steps ahead of her as they approach Nemo, putting himself bodily in between them as if he doesn't fully trust Nemo—_Emma_ doesn't fully trust Nemo, something she feels guilty about because it has absolutely nothing to do with Nemo, just the man he considers a son that might want to murder Killian.

"Emma, Killian," Nemo greets them solemnly.

"Nemo," Killian replies, warily.

"I'm sorry Ian got mixed up in this."

"Ian was just looking out for his friend."

"Aye." Nemo smiles. "I'm glad Leo has such a good friend."

Emma leans into Killian's side, sliding her hand around his hook. "Will you make sure those two boys don't try to get back at Leo later?"

"We will. We're aware of Nathaniel's...nature. He lived on the streets before we found him, and we're having difficulty convincing him that we're his home now."

Emma nods. She remembers the mistrust she had, the feeling that it didn't matter what her foster parents or the people that ran the group home said or did—or even what she said or did while she was there—because it wasn't permanent.

"What about the other kid?" she asks. "Alvin? Is he the one with the curly hair?"

"Yes, that's Alvin. He and his younger brother have been with us for years. We're very close to finding a family for them, but that seems to have only made Nathaniel more determined to drag Alvin into trouble with him."

"Perhaps you need to be more firm with Nathaniel," Killian suggests.

"He needs guidance," Nemo says. "I'm no longer in a position to offer Nathaniel the guidance he needs, but I do have someone in mind who _can_."

Emma has one hand wrapped loosely around Killian's elbow, and she feels him stiffen. "Your charges are not my responsibility, mate," he growls.

"I don't mean you, Killian."

The muscles in Killian's arm go completely rigid, and Emma's pretty sure he's stopped breathing.

"You're talking about Liam," Emma says. She squeezes Killian's elbow and leans into him harder, willing him to relax, reminding him that she's there.

Nemo's eyes shift to Emma's. "I am."

"Is he close then?" Killian chokes out.

"I have no idea. I haven't heard from him since he responded to my message."

"But you're expecting him soon?" Emma asks.

"I was hoping he'd be here by Christmas, yes."

Something vibrates against Emma's hip, startling her. She leaps away from Killian's side, fumbling in her pocket for her phone, for one wild instant certain it's the school calling her again to tell her that there's been a revenge brawl in the cafeteria, but when she finally fishes her phone out of her pocket it's David's name on the screen.

"It's my dad," she explains.

"I'll let you get that," Nemo says. He bows his head in a parting gesture. "Good to see you again."

"Likewise," Killian returns, though he doesn't sound at all like he means it.

When Nemo's out of earshot, Emma puts the phone to her ear. "Hey, dad."

"Perhaps it's nothing, Swan," Killian whispers.

Emma shakes her head and closes her eyes, focusing on her dad's voice.

"_Hey, Emma_."

"What's up?"

"_Two more spiders. The Merry Men took out one and we're tracking down the second one now_."

Emma opens her eyes and turns them tiredly to Killian. He reads her expression and nods; simultaneously they start for the car doors.

"Alright dad, we're on our way. Where should we meet you?"

\---

Emma finds her dad's pickup and the Merry Men's cars parked at one of the trailheads marked "Horn Pond". There isn't a paved parking lot, but there's a large swath of dirt and gravel that fits about ten cars side by side. They park the Bug next to the Apprentice's Volvo and get out.

"How far in did your father say they are?" Killian asks.

"Not too far. He said Sarah's sending something to guide us."

The _something_ is one of her snowman sentries. After the last six spiders appeared, Sarah stationed hundreds of them in the woods and beyond to watch for portals opening; Emma doesn't understand how exactly they work, but it seems like they _do_ work.

This snowman looks like a squirrel got to its carrot nose (which is maybe why the rocks that make up its mouth are frowning). It's also missing an arm, but the one that remains is pointing down the trail.

Emma and Killian step onto the snowy path and start walking. Within five minutes they run into another snowman, this one sitting directly in the center of the trail with its arm aimed east.

"Guess that means we go this way," Emma says.

"Aye, love. After you."

Off the path, the snow is deeper but manageable. They trudge in as straight a line as they can until they find a third snowman that angles them slightly more south again. The fourth snowman is pointing down, to several sets of footprints in the snow, and after another ten minutes of following the footprints they arrive at a copse of birch trees in which David, Robin, Sarah, and the Apprentice are standing in a loose group around a dead spider.

"You got it," Emma pants.

"Yea, sorry," David says.

Emma shrugs. "You don't have to apologize." She moves closer, gaze fixed on the spider. There's black blood sprayed across the snow and coating the sword David's still holding. "Only two this time?"

"Yea," David says, brow furrowing. "That's weird, right?"

"It is," Emma agrees. She looks to the Apprentice for an explanation. "Why were there less this time?"

The Apprentice shakes his head. "It could be that sending six cost her too much, and she only had the strength to open two portals this time."

"Or perhaps she was hoping these two could link up with the one we still haven't found yet," Killian offers.

"_Shit_," Emma swears; she almost forgot about their rogue spider problem.

"We should keep an eye out, in case she tries to send any more through today."

"My snowmen are watching," Sarah says. "I'll know the moment another portal opens."

"And my men will keep looking for the missing spider," Robin promises. "We'll find it."

\---

On the walk back to their cars, Emma tells Robin what happened between Ian and some of Roland's classmates to keep her mind off of the spiders.

"I know the two boys of whom you speak," Robin says. "Roland's told me all about them. As far as I know, they've never bothered him, but I'll talk to him tonight and make sure he knows what to do if they _do_ bother him."

"Punch them?" Killian proposes.

Robin smirks. "I wouldn't mind if he did, but from what I understand that sort of thing would land Roland in trouble as well."

"Only if it happens in school."

"Or on school property," Emma adds. "So if you two are planning on sending Ian and Roland out to kick someone's butt, make sure they do it on neutral ground."

Killian grins at her. "I always knew there was a little pirate in you, Swan."

David, a few steps behind them, snorts. "Actually, you'd be surprised how much like her mother she just sounded."

Robin laughs, and Emma blushes.

\---

They grab lunch at Granny's. Emma doesn't feel nauseous, but she doesn't feel very much like eating, either, so she has a bowl of oatmeal and a fruit cup, hating every second of it but consoled by the fact that it's apparently very healthy for her and the Bean.

Afterwards, they visit Henry in the library, where Henry hands Killian a stack of books he picked out for him.

"What about me?" Emma demands.

"Mom," Henry drawls. "You don't read."

"I read _sometimes_."

"You reread Harry Potter once a year. That doesn't count."

Belle swoops in then and hands Emma a copy of _Outlander_—Emma knows what it is and knows she's not going to read it, but out of politeness she accepts it.

(She'll have to read the Wikipedia summary so she can pretend to Belle that she enjoyed it.)

At home, there's time for Emma to take a quick nap (a nap which Killian is disappointed is not a sexy nap) before they have to pick up Ian from school.

The sky is still overcast, now with an increased chill in the air that threatens more snow. Emma and Killian stand huddled together on the sidewalk outside the schoolyard gates with Robin and Ruby, waiting for Ian, Rowan, and Roland to extract themselves from the melee of other students.

"So some little shits stole Leo's watch?" Ruby hisses.

"_Shhh_," Emma admonishes. "Not so loud."

"Like anyone can hear me." Ruby rolls her eyes. "Seriously though, which little jerk do I have to ki—hey, baby! How was school?"

Rowan skips into their midst, beaming. Emma smiles at her before looking back up at the schoolyard. She spots Ian with Leo, standing and chatting, as is their habit. In a minute, Leo will depart for the group of other Misthaven kids waiting by their bus and Ian will race over. While she waits, Emma lets her gaze wander, searching for Nathaniel and Alvin, determined to make sure they don't try anything while they're in her sight.

She locates Nathaniel almost immediately, walking determinedly across the schoolyard—straight for Roland.

Emma freezes. "_Fuck_. Robin, I think-"

Before she can finish her sentence, Nathaniel reaches Roland and shoves him hard to the ground.

Then, like lightning, Ian arrives.

He bulldozes full body into Nathaniel and tackles him, riding the bigger boy's body until he hits the concrete, and then Ian starts punching.

Emma takes off. Killian and Robin sprint past, far faster than she is.

The sea of children part before them, scattering out of their way, opening up a clear path to where Ian and Nathaniel are grappling on the ground. Nathaniel's bigger than Ian, but Nathaniel's also only a third the size of either Killian or Henry, whom Ian wrestles on a daily basis; he tries to get his arms around Ian and hold him still, but Ian can't be caught, and as he squirms this way and that, he rains down blow after blow with fists and feet, battering every inch of Nathaniel he can reach.

Emma's heart is hammering in her chest, punctuated by the litany of swears parading from her brain to her lips.

_God dammit god dammit god dammit_.

She might be saying them out loud, but she's not sure.

(She might be saying _worse_ things out loud, judging by the faces of the adults she's running past.)

Killian and Robin are almost there when Nathaniel flips Ian hard onto his back and gets one knee pinned to Ian's chest. Emma wills her legs to run faster, even though she knows there's no way to get there before the fist Nathaniel has raised breaks Ian's nose.

What Emma doesn't expect is Roland.

_Nathaniel_ doesn't expect Roland, either.

Roland plows into Nathaniel like a cannonball, knocking him off of Ian and then rolling to the side. Ian scrambles to his feet but Killian grabs him and hauls him back and Robin puts himself in between Nathaniel and Roland. Another adult arrives, a bald man that Emma thinks is the gym teacher, and puts himself in between Nathaniel and Ian too.

Emma skids to a halt next to Killian, surveying the damage. Ian's scraped up and bleeding a little and he'll probably be one giant bruise, but he's breathing. Killian has both arms wrapped tightly around his chest, and he's looking between Ian and Roland and Robin's back. Past them, Emma sees several teachers rushing their way, the principal amongst them.

She looks at Killian and he grimaces; she knows they're thinking the same thing: There's no way Ian's getting out of this one.


	13. Chapter 13

The principal's verdict is in-school suspension for the rest of the week for Ian, Roland, and Nathaniel, plus an extra hour of after-school detention. No one was injured save for a few bumps and bruises and Ian's scraped chin; fortunately all three boys were wearing their thick winter coats, so despite all the punches and kicks that found their mark, most of the damage was caused by the ground.

Killian, Emma, Robin, and Nemo all sat mutely while the principal berated the boys for their behavior, and all three boys had the sense to remain silent as well. When they reach the car, Ian bursts. He hoists his backpack over his head with both hands, flings it into the backseat, gets in beside it, and explodes into angry tears.

Killian, distraught, looks to Emma, but she merely shakes her head.

"Let him get it out of his system," she murmurs. "He'll be fine in a few minutes."

She's right, of course; by the time they reach the house Ian's tears are all dried up.

He shuffles up the sidewalk and onto the porch ahead of them, rubbing at his cheeks. Once they're through the front door, Emma says, "Go upstairs and get changed, kid. I'll be up in a minute to put some Neosporin on your face."

Ian obeys, slouching up the stairs with his coat and shoes still on. Killian watches him go, his heart constricting at the sight.

Emma sighs and hugs her stomach, hands gripping her elbows. "Are we bad parents if we don't punish him?" she asks.

"I'm inclined to say no," Killian replies. His imagination had conjured a thousand possible scenarios for how Ian could have landed himself in the principal's office, but the burning question in Killian's mind had been: was _he_ responsible? What had he done as a father that he should have done differently?

He could forgive Ian for anything, but he was afraid he wouldn't be able to forgive himself if the fault was his for not setting a better example.

Killian saw the moves Ian used—holds and escapes Killian taught him, the punches they practiced, aiming for vulnerable areas...all reflexes they honed over several months' worth of sparring sessions.

He can't help but feel that this _is_ his fault.

"I'm sorry, Swan," he says.

Emma blinks at him, one eyebrow raised. "For what?"

"For teaching Ian how to fight. It was irresponsible of me." He bows his head, eyes downcast, shame blooming in his gut and heating his cheeks. "Perhaps what happened today could have been avoided if I'd-"

"Killian..."

Bafflingly, her lips curl into a smile. She unfolds her arms and lays them on his chest. Automatically, he lifts his hand and hook to her hips.

"You didn't teach Ian _to_ fight, you taught him _how_ to fight," she says. "There's a difference. Ian would have done what he did today whether or not you'd ever taught him how to throw a punch or escape a headlock or whatever. It's just who he is."

The hand she has on his left breast, closest to his heart, pats him consolingly.

"Plus," she continues, "I told you that you could teach him how to fight, so if you're guilty then I'm guilty too."

Killian takes a deep breath and exhales slowly, looking towards the stairs. "I just wanted him to be able to defend himself."

"I know."

"I didn't mean for him to think it's okay to get into fights at school."

"I don't think he _does_ think that." She steps into him and slides her arms around his waist. "I don't think he was thinking anything, actually; I think he just saw Roland get pushed and ran over to help him."

"That doesn't sound like something he learned from us," Killian jokes dryly.

Emma snorts. "That sounds _exactly_ like something he learned from us." She leans her head forward until her forehead bumps his chest. "I'm really mad at him for fighting but also _not_ mad at him at the same time. Does that make sense?"

"I hope so, Swan, because I feel precisely the same way."

Although Killian's not proud of Ian for fighting, he's proud of him for standing up for Roland—and for Leo, although Killian's similarly disapproving of Ian's methods in that case as well.

Emma groans into his jacket. "I don't know what to do."

"I think that, perhaps-" He kisses the top of her head. "We should start by talking to him. Now would be a good time to have a conversation about when it's okay to use your fists, and when one should trust the adults around them to handle the situation."

"Should we ban him from the Xbox for a week or something?"

"You're asking _me_?"

"Yea. What happened to _you_ when you got into fights as a kid?"

"You're just _assuming_ I got into fights when I was a lad?"

He can feel her smile against his chest. "Yes. So, do kids get grounded in the Enchanted Forest like they do here?"

"No, they don't."

"Did you have to, like, do extra chores then or something?"

"I got flogged."

Emma stiffens. "Oh."

"Aye."

Her hands disappear from his back, as though suddenly wary of the scars there. She steps back.

"Killian, I'm sorry—I wasn't thinking."

He snags her by the elbows before she can pull away. "It's alright, Swan. I don't mind."

The whip marks are old and, in truth, there aren't many—Silver only lost control three times, and in all three instances he stopped soon after he drew blood.

(Not soon enough, perhaps, otherwise Killian would have far fewer scars.)

Killian draws Emma close again. "I don't want to punish Ian, Swan, but I do want him to understand why what he did today wasn't entirely...acceptable."

"Yea," Emma agrees. She rises onto her tiptoes to kiss him, a brush of warm lips that Killian can never quite believe feels as wonderful as it does, then she slips from his arms and makes for the stairs, shedding her coat and hanging it from the banister on her way. Killian hangs up his own jacket and follows.

Ian's in his room, lying face down on the bed, using Roger as a pillow. His school clothes are in a pile on the floor, and he changed into a pair of green camouflage sweatpants, Christmas socks, and a bright yellow Pikachu t-shirt.

(If this wasn't a typical outfit, Killian might suspect the boy sustained a head injury during his scuffle with Nathaniel.)

Emma sits on the edge of the bed, and touches Ian's shoulder. "Hey."

Ian doesn't respond.

"Ian?" Emma prompts, nudging his shoulder, tugging it gently towards her. "Ian, can I see your face?"

After a moment of resistance, Ian rolls onto his back. He scraped his chin and his cheek, Killian suspects against the ground. His lip is cut as well, and Killian thinks that one was inflicted by a fist. The school nurse cleaned him up in the principal's office, but his cheek is still puffy and his lip is swollen and spotted with fresh blood.

Emma cups his face with one hand and runs her thumb along his jaw. "How do you feel?"

"Fine," Ian mumbles.

"Do you wanna talk?"

"About what?"

"About what happened at school."

Ian looks away. Emma opens the tube of Neosporin she grabbed from the medicine cabinet in the bathroom, squeezes some onto her finger, and begins rubbing it into the scrape on his cheek.

"Did Leo get his watch back?" she asks.

Ian nods.

"That's good. It was nice of you to try and get it back for him."

Killian slips his hand into his jeans pocket and sidles closer, so he can see Ian's face over Emma's shoulder.

"You shouldn't have gone into another kids locker though, kid."

Ian's eyes flicker downwards.

"Next time tell the teacher."

"Or wait until you get home and tell me or your mother," Killian says. "We could have called Nemo and told him what happened, gotten Leo's watch back that way."

Emma caps the tube of Neosporin, wipes her fingers on her leggings, and then reaches out to run her hand along Ian's brow, combing his bangs to the side.

"That kid Nathaniel's kind of a jerk, huh?"

Ian looks quickly at Emma, an incredulous grin tugging at his lips, stifled almost immediately.

"He seems like a bully," Emma continues.

"He _is_," Ian insists.

"I didn't like it when he pushed Roland."

"Me either."

"Is that why you went after him? Because you were upset that he pushed Roland?"

"I didn't want him to hurt Roland."

Emma nods, her hand still stroking Ian's brow. Killian's fascinated by how smoothly she's parenting their son; Killian's learned much—from her, from Ian, through trial and error—but sometimes he still feels like a complete novice.

Suddenly, Ian's face crumples. "I'm sorry I got into a fight."

"You were protecting Roland," Emma says softly. "We get it, kid. And I think you're right; I think Nathaniel might have tried to do more than push Roland down if someone hadn't stopped him."

Killian steps closer to the bed then and kneels there. "Fighting isn't always the only option though," he says. "What I've been teaching you is for self-defense only—and only for situations in which you have no other choice. In the future, you need to think first, _before_ you resort to using your fists. Understand?"

"Yes," Ian whispers.

Killian smiles. He doesn't have Emma's "lie detector" skills, and he may still be a novice in many ways in terms of parenting, but he has learned to read his boy rather well, and he knows Ian heard them.

"There's a good lad," Killian says, and leans in to plant a kiss on Ian's forehead. There's no telling whether or not he actually _will_ think in the future, but, at the very least, Killian thinks he and Emma were able to communicate that they weren't pleased with the fighting or the stealing without condemning him for standing up for his friends.

Ian's eyelids are drooping, so they tuck him beneath the covers, give him half a chewable children's Advil, and leave him to sleep off his emotional and physical exhaustion.

Emma collects his clothes from the floor and deposits them in the hamper, all except for his khakis, which she carries to their bedroom. There's a massive rip in the knee of his trousers. "See?" she says, holding them up and wiggling her fingers at him through the rip. "_This_ is why I bought 6 pairs."

"You could just sew them, Swan."

"I don't know how to sew."

"Oh. Well, I do."

"Really?"

"Aye."

She smirks. "Can you sew them better than you sewed that scar on your shoulder?"

Just as she knows the tale behind the marks upon his back, she knows the story of every scar on every other part of his body, and she knows that—except for the whip marks and his blunted wrist—he's sensitive about none of them.

"To be fair," he says, returning her smirk. "It was Smee who sewed the wound. _I_ merely made a mess of it trying to dig the bullet out."

Emma makes a face. "Gross."

"Quite."

Had he not been nearly blackout drunk, he would have blacked out from the pain and the sensation of the knife tip digging around in the flesh of his shoulder. It's a miracle he didn't sever an artery.

He reaches for the trousers, but Emma yanks them from his reach with a teasing smile. "Are you _sure_ you can sew? It sounds like Smee's the one that-"

"You've seen the scar on my thigh, yes?"

"Yea."

"I sewed that one."

Emma's face returns, the disgusted one, one eye screwed up tighter than the other. "That one's not...you're not helping your case."

"Really?" he asks, genuinely taken aback. "I thought I did a rather good job."

"You thought wrong." She turns away and starts folding the trousers. "Maybe I'll just ask Smee to-"

"_I'll_ sew them, Swan," he rumbles, seizing the khakis from her hands. "Do you have a sewing kit?"

Emma snatches the trousers back. "Nope," she says. "But my mom probably does. Or Sarah—she's actually the one who used to sew all of Ian's clothes for me. I'll borrow a kit from one of them."

She finishes folding Ian's khakis and places them on top of their shared dresser, presumably for Killian to sew later.

"In any case," she concludes, "there's always Smee."

Killian rolls his eyes with such force that his head snaps back. "Swan," he growls. "You're..."

Emma steps into him. "I'm what?" she presses.

He takes her by the hips and pulls her fully against him. Rational thought flees his brain, and whatever he had been intending to say withers on his tongue and becomes, "You're beautiful."

"I seem to remember you saying something similar earlier," she murmurs, her hands climbing his sides. "Before we were interrupted."

"You'd like to pick up where we left off?"

"I would," Emma hums.

Their bedroom door is closed. Killian doesn't remember when that happened. He's aware only of Emma's heat, her softness, and his own rapidly _de_creasing softness in an area of his body that's straining for her touch.

"As you wish, Swan," he purrs. He drops to his knees, expertly taking Emma's leggings and underwear down with him, and buries his face between her thighs.

He hears her gasp, and then he hears the dresser rattle behind his head as she braces herself against it. After a few long, careful moments, her legs begin to tremble.

"Killian, I—_fuck_, don't stop...don't-"

Killian tries (and fails) to keep the smug smile off of his face while he holds her steady and listens to her muffled cries; he stands as her knees buckle, catching her and getting his arms beneath her thighs, lifting her and turning her until she's sitting on the edge of the dresser.

He loves how she looks after she's had an orgasm, flushed and dazed and utterly sated; he kisses her, hand tangling in her hair, hips pushing forward, her legs falling open. He takes his time, which is all he can ever do these days, too worried about the babe to surrender to the overwhelming urge to plunge himself as deeply inside of Emma as he can, again and again until she shatters. He feels complete when they're like this, when she's clutching him close and her toes are curling against his bare hips, when he has his forehead pressed to her neck and his lips on her collarbone and he's gasping.

Bliss is something Killian Jones has never experienced outside of Emma's arms. She's given him so much. Her love. Family. Their son. The Bean. A place to call home.

He could spend his entire life trying to return the favor and only give her half as much as she's given him.

But Killian will endeavor to try anyway.

He's going to make Emma as happy as she makes him.

\---

Ian sleeps for nearly two hours. Emma and Killian are sitting on the floor wrapping Christmas presents by the time he wakes up and wanders into their bedroom and unceremoniously plops into Killian's lap.

"Hey there, lad," Killian grunts. "Feel better?"

Ian, his head tucked beneath Killian's chin, nods. His face is definitely less puffy.

Emma glances up from the toy piano they bought for Gideon, which she's currently measuring a piece of wrapping paper for. "Henry will be home in a little bit to watch you while your dad and I go out," she says. "He's going to make you dinner and then help you with your homework, okay?"

Ian nods again, then tilts his head back to look up at Killian. "Is Santa gonna bring me coal because I got into a fight?"

"I think Santa will understand," Killian replies. He wants to add that perhaps Santa will bring coal for _Nathaniel_, but he restrains himself. However Nemo wants to handle disciplining his charge is none of Killian's concern.

"Speaking of Santa," Emma interjects. "Did you get to go to Santa's Workshop today?"

Ian grins. "Yea."

"Did you get some Christmas gifts?"

"Yea."

"For other people?"

"Uh-huh."

"What did you get?"

Ian's grin grows, and he bites his lip.

"Oh, is it a secret?" Emma teases.

"Yea."

"Is it...for me?"

"Yea."

"Did you get some things for other people, too? Like your dad and Henry and grandma and grandpa?"

Ian nods vigorously.

"Alright," Emma says, smiling. "Did you bring home what you bought so you can wrap it?"

"Yep! It's in my backpack—you can't look though! Dad too."

"We won't," Emma assures him.

"Wait, where is my backpack?"

"Uh..."

"I believe it's still in the car," Killian says. "Would you like me to get it for you?"

"You may as well wrap some of your gifts now, while we have everything out," Emma adds.

"Ok," Ian says.

He climbs out of Killian's lap, and Killian climbs to his feet. "I'll be right back."

"Don't look inside!" Ian bellows after him.

Chuckling to himself, Killian descends the stairs to the first floor, turning the lights on as he goes.

He feels tired, but in the background of his own body and mind; emotionally wrung out in a distant way, like a fading bruise. That morning feels like it took place days ago, yet the clock informs him that it's only 5 o'clock, that everything that happened today took place in a mere 8 hours.

He pours himself a glass of rum to keep him company on his journey to the car, but pauses to take a sip while he stares at the massive dinosaur puzzle dominating the kitchen table. It's only a third finished, Emma having discovered that 1,000 piece puzzles are a tad harder than she anticipated. Somehow, the T-Rex is the only finished dinosaur.

Grinning to himself in amusement, Killian carries his rum to the front door to fetch his jacket and put his shoes on. Something heavy bumps his hip, and he reaches into his jacket pocket to discover that he left his phone there.

Out of habit, he checks for texts or missed calls. There's a text from Henry about another book he wants Killian to read, and several missed calls from Nemo.

Killian scowls. Nemo's the last person he wishes to speak to at the moment. He shoves the phone back into his pocket and steps outside, closing the door behind him.

It's full dark, and it's snowing. Killian's never seen as much snow as he's seen here in Storybrooke. The snowfall is light, but there's a thin layer covering the sidewalk and the porch steps. The porch itself is clear, protected by the roof.

Killian inhales deeply, relishing the taste of the frigid air in his lungs, then sets his shoulders and heads for the stairs. He glances up just before he reaches the first step, and stops in his tracks.

Someone's standing at the gate.

For a heartbeat, Killian thinks it's Henry, returned home from his shift at the library.

But Henry wouldn't just be standing there, staring. And the man standing at the gate is not quite Henry's height nor as broad-shouldered.

_Liam_.

An icy finger drags its way down Killian's spine.

He knew this was coming, and yet he's not prepared for it in the slightest.

The seconds drag by, Killian's pulse thundering in his ears like the sound of war drums in the distance, and then in one swift movement Liam vaults the gate and stalks up the sidewalk.

It all seems to happen in slow motion. Killian notices the snow gathered on the shoulders of Liam's uniform and in his light brown hair, he sees the knife in Liam's hand and he recognizes the gleam in his eye. Killian stands there, unwilling to back away but unable to attack. He has no weapons on him—unless you count Ian's EpiPen, which Killian can reach through a magic pocket Emma sewed into the inside of his jacket.

He _does_ still have the glass of rum; he could smash it, use a shard of glass to defend himself...

Liam mounts the steps. Killian takes a deep breath—Emma and Ian are in the house and he can't let them be hurt—and then Liam has him by the throat.

Rough, calloused fingers squeeze his windpipe. The glass slips from his hand. Killian hears it break, hears Liam's boots crunching on the pieces as he walks Killian backwards until Killian's head hits the corner of the doorframe.

Pain rips through his skull, stars erupting behind his eyes like fireworks. He blinks rapidly to clear his vision, jaw clamping tight, struggling to focus-

"_Hello, brother_," Liam croons.

Bloody hell, it hurts to be called that—more than the hand wringing his neck or the knife pricking his ribs.

Liam bares his teeth in a grin that's half snarl. "Nothing to say?"

He resembles their father, the same face but with different coloring, the eyes a bit rounder.

"How about last words, then?"

The knife disappears from Killian's side, but it reappears against his throat. Killian feels the sting of sharp metal piercing flesh, followed by the hot trickle of blood. Time slows down further. Killian didn't want to have to hurt his brother, but he won't allow Liam to kill him; he won't leave Ian to grow up alone, or the Bean.

He won't leave Emma, either. Not when he's only just found her again, found his happiness...

Killian's brain catches up to reality, and he tenses.

He can disarm Liam. He'll probably gain another scar in the process, but he-

The front door opens, spilling golden light onto the porch.

"Dad?"

_No_. Killian doesn't know if he says it out loud or merely thinks it.

Liam freezes, the knife against Killian's throat digging deeper, a silent command for Killian to stay still.

"Dad?" Ian asks again. Killian can see him out of the corner of his eye, pressed against the glass of the storm door.

_No, no, no! _he pleads.

Ian pushes the storm door open and steps into the gap.

"Dad, did you get my-"

Ian halts, mouth closing slowly, eyes flicking back and forth between Killian and Liam.

"Who're you?" Ian asks, gaze settling on Liam.

"Ian, get inside," Killian says.

Ian doesn't move, eyes locked icily on Liam.

"_Killian David_," Killian growls. Ian looks at him then, startled. "Get inside _now_."

Instead of obeying, Ian steps onto the porch. Killian thinks hysterically that the boy only has those absurd Christmas socks on and if he steps on the broken glass he'll slice his feet to ribbons. Ian slides his hand into Killian's, hanging loosely at his side. Reflexively, Killian grasps back, his cold fingers tightening around Ian's warm ones.

"Liam-" he starts, but Liam jerks backwards and whirls away, leaping the stairs and darting down the sidewalk, vaulting the gate once more and vanishing into the darkness. 

"Who was that?" Ian asks.

Killian considers lying, but decides against it. "That was my brother."

Ian's hand jumps to the lump beneath his t-shirt—Liam's ring.

"That ring belonged to my older brother. The man you just saw was my younger brother."

"You have a _little_ brother too?"

"Aye."

Ian stares up at him, brows pinched. "Why was he trying to hurt you?"

"He doesn't like me very much."

"Oh." His eyes drop to Killian's collar. "You're bleeding."

Killian eases his hand from Ian's and touches his throat. His neck is coated with blood, but it seems like the wound is a shallow one.

"C'mon, lad. Let's go inside."

Ian nods and trots to the door, holding it open so Killian can pass through. Inside, he hears Emma's voice.

"Ian?"

"Down here," Ian calls back.

Killian remains in the doorway. There's snow and glass and probably blood on his boots and he doesn't want to track it all over the house.

Emma's descending the stairs. "Where are-" She stumbles when she sees Killian, her hand flying to the railing to catch herself. "What the hell happened?"

"His brother," Ian says.

Emma's eyes widen.

"It's alright, Swan," Killian assures her quickly. "He's gone."

"Killian-" She hurdles the remaining stairs and rushes over, grabbing Ian and hoisting him onto her hip.

"Swan, don't-" Killian says. She's pregnant, she shouldn't be straining herself, but it's too late, and his objection ends in a strangled sound he makes in his throat that physically hurts.

Emma steps close to him, her arms firmly around Ian. "What are you going to do?"

Killian sighs. His head aches fiercely and his throat burns and he can still feel Liam's fingers choking him. "I'm going to go find him and talk to him."

Emma shakes her head. "You can't, he'll..."

_Kill you_.

"He won't," Killian says, gaze moving to Ian. "Not now, not anymore."


	14. Chapter 14

Underneath the blood, the slash along Killian’s throat isn’t too bad; Emma can see bruises forming above it though, just beneath Killian’s jawline, and he keeps touching his fingers delicately to the back of his head when he thinks she isn’t looking.

Emma expected to be angry, so the rage that ignites inside of her like a fire burning in her belly is no surprise. It blazes hot and bright for a very long time, until Killian’s neck is clean and Ian’s putting Neosporin on his cut—which, judging by Killian’s strained expression is not a comfortable experience despite how fiercely Ian’s concentrating on being gentle; then the fire dims, becomes an ember, a grim acceptance that settles inside of her, the knowledge that, if Killian’s brother tries to take this away from her—from _Ian_, from his little brother or sister that hasn’t even been born yet—she will end him.

The only Band-Aids they have are Pokémon ones. Killian smiles as Ian chooses each one carefully and then explains _why_ that character is cool enough to decorate his wound with; it takes five to get the job done, and the final result is comical but still better than the blood-smeared neck he walked back into the house with.

Killian sits while Emma and Ian clear the kitchen table of all the supplies they used to patch him up, his eyes unfocused, far away. Emma sends Ian upstairs to put the Band-Aids and the Neosporin away, then turns to Killian, arms hugging her stomach.

“Where do you think he is?” she asks.

Killian’s head jerks up, startled blue eyes darting to hers. “I’m sorry?”

“Liam. Where do you think he is?”

“Oh.”

His brow furrows and he shakes his head, then he stretches his hand across the table and turns it over, palm up. Emma sits down beside him and lays her hand over his. His fingers curl around hers and squeeze, and there’s something desperate about it, like a man tumbling down over a cliff’s edge, grasping at anything and everything, hoping something will hold.

Emma smiles softly and squeezes his fingers back. She’s got him. No matter what.

The corner of Killian’s mouth lifts in a smile, and he exhales, shoulders relaxing as he does.

“Liam’s probably at a bar,” Killian guesses.

“A bar? You don’t think he went back to Nemo?”

“No. Not yet. Not until he’s decided what he’ll do next.”

“Is there…a possibility that what he’ll do next is try to kill you again?”

“No,” he replies, in that same infuriatingly assured voice he had earlier. “As much as he very likely still _wants_ to kill me, he won’t. He won’t orphan Ian the same way I orphaned him.” Killian looks away, towards the stairs, and finishes quietly, “Ian’s innocent of all this, as Liam was innocent of _my_ father’s sins.”

Emma nods. She strokes Killian’s knuckles with her thumb for a long moment, watching Killian slowly turn inwards again.

The ember of anger still inside of her trembles, struggling to stay lit—but it’s difficult to stay pissed off when she can see how heavily Killian’s past weighs upon his shoulders, how deeply he regrets how many people he hurt, how many lives he destroyed.

She doesn’t want that for him. She doesn’t want Liam to be another invisible scar on his heart.

“You know,” she says, “I don’t want to sound like Nemo, but…maybe you _can_ make this right with your brother.”

Killian sighs, shakily. “I’m going to try to, Swan.”

“Just…don’t let him kill you, okay?”

He chuckles. “I won’t,” he promises, then lifts their joined hands to his lips and brushes his lips across her fingers, the spark returned to his eyes. “There’s nothing in this world that can take me away from you and Ian and the Bean.”

Emma grips his hand hard. “Good.”

\---

The moment Killian’s gone Emma fetches her phone from upstairs and makes several phone calls—one to Henry, summoning him home; one to her dad, whom she knows can get to Killian’s side faster than she can right now; then one each to Robin, Will, Smee, and Ruby.

Afterwards, she changes out of her sweats and into jeans, and combs her hair back into a ponytail. Downstairs, Ian’s waiting by the front door, his shoes and coat on.

“No,” Emma says.

“I wanna go,” he growls, mittened hands tightening into fists.

“You _can’t_ go, Ian.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m going to a bar. They don’t let 6-year-old’s into bars.”

He’s silent, and Emma puts her own coat and shoes on while he thinks of a response. She’s saved another argument, however, by Henry. He storms through the front door, cheeks flushed as if he ran the entire way home.

“What happened?” he demands.

As calmly as she can, Emma explains, coaxing Ian out of his woolen hat and his coat as she does.

“So, what do you want me to do?” Henry asks.

“I want you to stay here with the doors locked and help your brother with his homework.”

“Mom-”

“And when Ian’s finished with his homework, you guys can try to finish that dinosaur puzzle.”

“Mom, I want to go with.”

“You can’t,” Ian interjects haughtily. “They don’t let 6-year-old’s into bars.”

Henry scowls down at Ian. “I’m not 6, idiot. _You’re_ 6\. I’m 18.”

“Yea, well, they don’t let 18-year-old’s into bars, either,” Emma says. Henry turns his scowl on her, but she ignores it. “I’m leaving. I’ll be back soon. If anyone knocks on the door check to see who it is before you open it—it’ll probably be your grandma, but still.”

“Grandma’s coming?” Ian asks brightly.

Both of his grandparents spoil him with attention, and while David’s a known sucker for getting roped into all sorts of Ian’s games, Snow can always be counted on to either bring a treat or be easily swayed into making treats.

“Grandma’s not going to bring you to a bar,” Henry mutters, tugging his scarf off with brutal force and tossing it into the wicker basket full of pom-pom hats and their mismatched glove collection.

Emma picks up the scarf Henry discarded and starts wrapping it around her own neck. “That’s not what he…”

Ian turns big, too-innocent eyes on her.

“Oh my God, that’s exactly what you thought. _Ian!_”

Ian shrugs, lower lip jutting out in a pout that Emma’s seen far too many times for one day. “I wanna go,” he repeats sullenly.

“I know you do, kid, but you can’t.” She pulls him into a hug. His arms wrap around her middle and she cups his head to her stomach, her fingers threaded through his hair. “I’ll bring him back, Ian. I promise.”

She gives him a final squeeze then peels his arms from around her waist and pushes him towards Henry, who grabs Ian by the armpits and holds on.

Emma escapes as quickly as she can, the sound of Henry and Ian arguing following her all the way to the front gate.

* * *

Killian finds Liam rather easily. There are only so many holes for him to crawl into, after all.

Well, three, to be exact—two, if you take into consideration that it’s Monday and The Crow’s Nest is closed on Monday. That leaves only Aesop's Tables and The Rabbit Hole, and since Aesop's is hard to find if you don't already know where it is, Killian visits The Rabbit Hole first.

Liam’s there, sitting at the bar by himself, a glass of something amber with an ice cube in it in front of him. Killian slides onto the empty stool beside his brother, catches the eye of Derek the bartender—a regular at The Crow’s Nest on his nights off—and nods at Liam. “One of what he’s having.”

While Derek busies himself with Killian’s drink, Killian studies his brother. Liam’s watching him warily, one hand clutching his drink, the other wrapped around the hilt of the knife resting on his thigh.

“How did you find me?” he asks.

Killian ignores the knife—it’s not a threat, it’s for protection; if Liam wanted to stab him he probably would have done so already.

Derek returns, sets Killian’s drink on the bar and leaves. Killian picks up the glass, and says, “We both have the blood of Brennan Jones in our veins, Liam. I merely considered what I’d do in your place.” Then, pointedly, he sips his drink.

“Don’t talk to me about our father,” Liam snarls. “You have no right-”

“I knew him better than you did.”

Killian says it calmly, but Liam reacts as though the words are a physical blow. His lip curls, but before he can respond David and Robin enter the bar, talking so loudly it’s impossible not to notice them.

“Friends of yours?” Liam mutters, as, laughing and elbowing each other, David and Robin make their way to two stools at the corner of the same countertop Liam and Killian are sitting at.

“Aye, they are,” Killian says, catching David’s eye. “They’re probably here to ensure you don’t kill me.”

Liam’s grip tightens on his knife.

“Don’t worry,” Killian adds. “They won’t do anything unless you do something first.”

David nods subtly at Killian—which is utterly pointless with Liam staring him down like a cornered fox, but it’s endearing nonetheless—and flags down Derek. Killian sees no weapons on them, but he knows Robin’s as skilled with a knife as he is a bow, and while David’s hand-to-hand is sluggish and clumsy compared to Killian’s, he has the strength of a bear.

“Are you afraid I’ll try to kill you again?” Liam wonders quietly, eyes still on David and Robin. “Is that why you called them here?”

“I didn’t call them, actually. I’m assuming Emma did. She’s probably on her way as well.”

“Who’s Emma?”

“My son’s mother.”

At the mention of Ian, Liam goes pale. He swallows, and looks sharply away, into his glass of whiskey.

Killian sips his drink again. It’s vile, though that’s par for the course at The Rabbit Hole—which Killian isn’t complaining about, truly, because it means The Crow’s Nest has gained a reputation for its stellar liquor selection. Aesop’s has them beat when it comes to their unique craft beer offerings, but Killian has no desire to serve oyster stouts or porter pre-digested by elephants, so Aesop’s can remain the sole, uncontested ruler of its own little niche.

He watches Derek bring two tulip glasses of ale to David and Robin, who grin in delight and toast each other.

Killian frowns at the display, momentarily distracted—what’s their angle? Are they merely enjoying themselves, or is their cover story the happy couple on the night of their engagement? Have they not realized their cover is blown?

Liam’s voice drags Killian from his thoughts.

“Your…son,” he starts.

Killian blinks, refocuses. “Yes?”

“He…he looks like you.”

“That’s what everyone tells me.” Killian sips his whiskey again, lets it burn his mouth for a moment before swallowing. “Seeing him earlier upset you. Why?”

“I was going to kill you.”

Liam eyes him sideways, as if his confession might come as a shock.

(As if he believes he had an actual chance of killing him.)

“But when I saw your son,” Liam continues, “I realized that if I killed you, then I would do to that boy what you did to me.”

Killian suspected as much. He thought about this moment often, wondered what he would say to his brother, if he would beg for forgiveness or not; he’s not sorry that Brennan Jones is dead, he merely regrets that the bastard’s death left young Liam an orphan.

“I shouldn’t have taken your father away from you,” Killian says.

This isn’t him begging for forgiveness because he doesn’t deserve forgiveness. All he wants is for Liam to know the whole story; to understand.

“If you’ll let me, I’ll explain what happened that night.”

“I _know_ what happened,” Liam spits. “You murdered my father.”

“I did. Wouldn’t you like to know _why_?”

Liam’s entire body shakes as he says, “Because you’re an evil man.”

“There’s a bit more to it than that,” Killian murmurs. He gathers himself, deciding where to begin.

Liam’s rapidly losing his composure. This must be dredging up all of his worst memories, all of his darkest emotions, the ones he tries to keep hidden and under control that burn defiantly somewhere deep inside of him nonetheless, driving him relentlessly forward, towards some unknown end that he hopes will bring him relief.

Killian understands that struggle—he lived it for centuries.

He also understands that there’s no light at the end of the tunnel, no release; there’s only emptiness and wasted years.

But Liam’s still young. Liam doesn’t have to suffer how Killian suffered.

“How old are you?” he asks.

Liam’s face scrunches. “What?”

“How old are you?” Killian repeats.

“28.”

“How old do you think I am?”

Liam narrows his eyes. He stares at Killian for a long moment before finally looking him up and down. “35,” he guesses. “Maybe 40.”

“So how old would that have made me when I killed our father? 15? You saw me that night; did I look like a 15 year old?”

“No,” Liam says slowly. “You looked exactly the same as you do now. But—that would make you…you’re not _60_. You can’t be.”

Killian smirks. “Try 191—well…” He tilts his head side to side, imagining Henry’s teasing smile. “Actually, I’m closer to 192.”

Liam shakes his head. “That’s not possible.”

“Implausible, perhaps. But not impossible.”

The Nautilus can travel between realms, so Liam must have visited many a strange land and seen countless wonders; a man nearly two centuries old shouldn’t be beyond his comprehension.

And it isn’t.

It takes Liam only until he’s finished his whiskey to accept Killian’s age, but then he turns to Killian with his brow furrowed.

“Wait, if you’re…then our father…”

“Was even older, aye.”

They’re interrupted by the arrival of another group of boisterous customers, this one comprised of Will, Smee, and Ruby. Once again, their subtlety is atrocious; Smee nods respectively as they pass and mumbles, “_Captain_,” and Will claps Killian hard on the arm.

“More friends of yours?” Liam queries, something very close to a smile pulling at one corner of his mouth.

“Oh, was it obvious?”

Ruby, Will, and Smee take three stools on their left, occupying the corner of the bar counter directly opposite David and Robin, who are still giggling over their tulip glasses.

Liam nods in Ruby’s direction. “Is that Emma?”

A snort bursts from Killian’s nose. “No, that’s not Emma—and be mindful of how you look at her. I’m certain she could quite literally devour you.”

Ruby hears him, of course, and smirks her wolfish smirk.

Liam doesn’t see, because he’s looking at Will, and before Killian can wonder if _that’s_ something, Liam’s talking again.

“Tell me more,” he says. His demeanor has changed, something urgent flaring to life in his eyes—something thirsty.

So Killian tells him. About Neverland and The Land of Untold Stories, realms where time stands still and no one ever ages; about how their father fled there to escape capture—about how Brennan Jones sold his two sons to a slave trader in exchange for a rowboat.

Naturally, that last bit of information comes as a bit of a shock.

“That’s why he never mentioned you,” Liam breathes, gripping his glass of whiskey with quivering fingers. “Or your…your brother.”

“Ah, you didn’t know that I had an older brother—that _we_ had an older brother, did you?”

“Had?” Liam asks softly.

“Aye. He’s dead.”

“I…I didn’t—no, I didn’t know. I’m sorry.” This he says uncertainly, as if he’s not sure how he should feel, or if he should say a word like _sorry_ to Killian.

“It’s alright,” Killian says. “He died a long time ago, before he even turned 30.”

_That’s not even the worst part, _Killian thinks_. The worst part is…_

“Do you know what his name was?”

“No,” Liam replies.

“His name was Liam.”

Liam eyes widen and his cheeks go pale. “Your older brother’s name…was Liam?”

“Aye. Our father named you after another son he’d had—a son he abandoned and never returned for.”

Anger courses through him at the memory, even now.

“When I found our father impossibly still alive after nearly two centuries, with a new life…he never apologized to me for what he’d done, and when he told me your name…I reacted.”

“I…I didn’t know,” Liam says, eyes downcast. “I didn’t know any of that.”

“It doesn’t excuse what I did. Brennan didn’t deserve a second chance, but you didn’t deserve to lose your father—and for that I’m sorry. I truly am.”

Liam nods, as if he accepts Killian’s words.

Killian drains his whiskey; it’s not nearly enough to drown the images from that night—his father’s jovial smile, his welcoming arms, how tenderly he tucked young Liam into his bed…those memories have sharp edges, and they cut deep. 

“For what it’s worth, I went back for you,” he confesses. Liam looks up. “It took nearly a week for my head to clear and for me to realize what I’d done—what I’d done _to you_—but by the time I returned…you were gone.”

Liam turns back to his drink. “Nemo found me,” he says absently. “After I found my father’s body, I wept until it was dark. I fell asleep outside…and in the morning I wandered into town. No one would help me—turns out no one really liked my father. I nearly starved to death. But Nemo found me.”

“Nemo’s a good man.”

“He is.”

“The man who raised you and Li-” Liam pauses, swallows. “And Liam.”

“Captain Silver?”

“Was he…like Nemo?”

“No. He wasn’t.”

Killian leaves it at that, and Liam seems to understand.

They sit in silence for several long minutes, Liam staring into his glass and Killian waiting, waiting for more questions. He risks a glance at David and Robin; they’re on their second round of beers, now something reddish in a chalice. He doesn’t look in Ruby’s direction; he knows she heard everything and he doesn’t want to see her reaction.

Killian's just slipping his hand into his pocket for his cell phone to check on Emma when she walks through the door. She stops at the threshold, eyes finding his from across the dimly lit bar.

“I take it _that’s _Emma,” Liam says.

“Aye. That’s Emma.”

Nemo steps into the bar behind Emma, but Killian only has eyes for the woman making her way slowly towards him. Sometimes he wonders if other people see what he sees when he looks at her, if Emma glows and the world fades into the background for everyone or merely for him. Even sitting elbow to elbow with a man that could very likely still want to kill him, Killian can’t help but watch her until she’s standing at his hip and sliding her arm around his back.

“Hello, love,” he greets.

“Hey,” she responds. Her hair is in a ponytail and Killian longs to bury his hand in it, but he settles for placing it on her waist instead.

She looks at Liam. “I’m Emma.”

Liam inclines his head. “Liam,” he murmurs, then his gaze flickers to the side as Nemo joins them.

Nemo calmly takes in the entire scene, eyes lingering on their whiskey glasses, but does a double take when he notices the Pokémon Band-Aids on Killian’s throat.

“Shaving accident,” Killian offers, lifting his chin to expose Ian’s handiwork. “Ian patched me up. I’m told that Clefairy is a healer, so I should be right as rain in no time.”

Nemo frowns. “None of those Band-Aids has Clefairy on it.”

“Really?” Killian splutters, not quite sure if he’s questioning the absence of Clefairy or the fact that Nemo knows what a Clefairy is.

“You have three Charmanders, a Squirtle, and Meowth,” Nemo replies.

“Ian wanted to give you a Pikachu one but he used them all,” Emma says.

“I could have sworn the lad said something about Clefairy…”

“You’re thinking of Chansey. He said he wished he had a Chansey Band-Aid because Chansey works with Nurse Joy at the Pokémon Center.”

“Oh.”

“Yea.” Emma pats his back consolingly.

Killian sighs and shakes his head—6 months ago he would have had no clue what any of those words mean—and turns to Nemo.

“Will you join us?” he asks.

Nemo straightens and squares his shoulder. “Actually, I think it’s time to go.”

Deliberately, he looks at Liam. Liam nods, and slips from his stool.

“It was good talking to you, Killian,” he says as he passes behind Killian’s back.

Killian whips around, hand leaving Emma’s waist to seize Liam by the elbow. Liam halts, arm rigid.

“You don’t have to forgive me,” Killian tells him in a low voice. “You have every right to keep hating me—to want revenge…but killing me won’t bring our father back, and it won’t fill the hole his death left inside of you. Take it from someone who _got_ their revenge and lived: there’s nothing for you afterwards. Nothing changes. You’ll feel as horrible as you did before only emptier.”

Killian loosens his grip but keeps his hand on Liam’s elbow.

“In any case…I can’t let you kill me.”

Killian may not deserve a second chance either, but he’s been given one and he’s going to do his best to have earned it—and perhaps that will be through Ian and through the child in Emma’s belly, by ensuring they never follow the dark paths he followed, by ensuring they put only good out into the world.

Liam listens, his face a mask. Then he nods and eases his arm from Killian’s grasp.

“See you around,” he says. He follows Nemo from the bar. David and Robin watch him go, all pretense dropped.

Killian watches him go too. He can’t predict if their relationship can ever be mended, but he thinks that if there’s any hope for the sort of reconciliation between himself and Liam that Nemo’s wishing for, that it won’t happen overnight; it will be a long, difficult road.

Emma shifts, blocking his view of the door, and her hand lifts to his face, stroking his cheek and then moving to his hairline, gently brushing stray strands back into place.

“I have to go back home,” she says.

Killian raises an eyebrow.

“I already got two texts from Henry saying that Ian’s being difficult,” she explains. “And ‘difficult’ is _not _the word he used. I literally almost had to handcuff Ian to the kitchen table to keep him from coming with.”

Killian grins. “Alright, Swan. I’m right behind you. Let me thank your bodyguards first, and then I’ll head home.”

She leans in and kisses him, drawing a whistle from Will.

“See you at home,” she whispers against his lips.

Her hips press against his thigh, adding additional meaning to her statement and sending a jolt of heat straight to his gut. He trails his hand up her thigh to caress the curve of her ass—an action he can only pray is not visible to David—and says, “Aye, love. See you at home.”

* * *

Emma drives back to the house slowly, thinking.

Liam doesn’t look like Killian; the only feature they share are blue eyes but it’s not even the same blue. Emma wonders how much he looks like their father, and if he looks anything like the elder Liam.

He didn’t seem like he wanted to murder Killian anymore. He seemed…defeated.

The texts Emma got from her dad and Ruby told her that Liam and Killian were talking, so whatever they talked about must have changed Liam’s mind—or at least given him something to think about. He followed Nemo from the bar like a sad kid trailing after his dad when he knows his dad is going to yell at him in the car.

Exhaling deeply, Emma pulls the Bug up to the curb and parks.

She’s beyond ready for this day to be over. She just wants to eat dinner and watch a movie and go to bed and to wake up tomorrow and have a fresh start.

The snow stopped hours ago, but a thin layer of it still remains on the road and on most of the cars parked on her block—it’s one thing she likes about this neighborhood, that it’s quiet in the evening because it’s full of families that spend weeknights hanging out together inside their own homes.

It's the kind of place Emma dreamed about growing up in when she was a kid.

She smiles to herself as she gets out of the car and heads for the house. Every single light is still on inside, which Emma should have expected; she was hoping Ian would be in bed by now, but he probably hasn’t even taken a bath yet—or done his homework.

God, if he hasn’t even done his homework yet Emma’s gonna-

“_Hello_,” says a silky voice.

Emma’s skids to a halt, her legs locking in place as an icy wave of terror crashes over her. She doesn’t have to turn around to know who it is; she could never forget that voice.

_Fuck_.

She sucks in a breath and squeezes her eyes shut.

_Fuck, fuck, fuck_.

This is it. This is finally it.

Slowly, Emma turns on her heel. The Black Fairy’s standing in the middle of the street, wearing what looks like a cloak made entirely of feathers.

Emma clamps down viciously on that voice inside of her that’s telling her to run away—she _can’t_ run away. Ian and Henry are in the house fifty feet away. She has to keep them safe.

And, you know what?

Emma’s doesn’t _want_ to run away.

Because she refuses to be afraid of this bitch.

Suddenly she’s angry—at her fear, at everything she’s had to go through the past two weeks at the Black Fairy for showing up practically on her goddamn _doorstep_.

She lets that little ember of rage she’s been nursing since Liam showed up flare back to life and delves into her magic at the same time—it feels like jet fuel in her veins.

“What do you want?” she asks.

The Black Fairy smiles. “Well, initially I wanted _you_, darling. I was going to make you suffer for what you did to me. Then I was going to drain your son of all his blood and eat his heart. But now…now I want what’s _inside_ of you.”

Both of Emma’s hand jump to her belly, shock extinguishing her anger. Another wave of ice washes over her, forcing her magic to slip from her grasp.

Emma can handle the Black Fairy wanting to kill _her_. But the baby?

(_The Bean?_)

“No,” she whispers.

Eyes glittering, the Black Fairy parts her cloak gracefully and takes several strutting steps forward. “There _is_ one thing I need to know first, however…”

She’s too close, within arm’s reach. Emma swallows and begins to back up, but—impossibly fast—the Black Fairy grabs her wrist and jerks her arm away from her stomach. Emma tries to pull away with all of her strength but the Black Fairy’s other hand flashes out and Emma’s palm starts burning.

“There now,” the Black Fairy hums, and releases her.

Emma stumbles backwards, stopping when her heels hit the curb, and turns her hand over. There’s a line of blood on her palm, stretching from her thumb to her pinky.

"What the fuck?" She mumbles it, because for some reason she can’t get her tongue to work properly. Or her mouth.

She looks from her hand to the Black Fairy, but her vision is already going dark around the edges.

“If his kiss doesn't wake you,” the Black Fairy says, settling her cloak back into place, “then this entire endeavor is pointless.”

_No!_

She tries to scream it but the sound gets stuck in her throat. The ground is like a magnet sucking her down and she can’t fight it—her knees buckle and she lashes out wildly with her magic. She hears the Black Fairy hiss and then something metallic hit the ground. There’s a brief flash of something bright, and then everything goes black.

* * *

Killian sees two figures in the road as he’s approaching the house. The instant he realizes what he’s seeing, the Black Fairy grabs Emma’s arm and lashes out with a knife.

“NO!” he bellows.

He slams on the brakes and barely remembers to put the car in park before he’s throwing himself out of the door and pelting down the street.

But it’s too late.

Emma and the Black Fairy are gone and the only thing left behind is a strange black knife lying in the snow.

Killian snatches up the knife and lets out a roar like a wounded animal.


	15. Chapter 15

It’s been hours.

Killian wants to flip a table. He already broke a chair but it didn’t lessen his fury, so the next logical step is to move onto something larger and more satisfying. A table would do, but not the kitchen table because Ian’s dinosaur puzzle is on it; he _could_ topple the bookshelf in the living room, but he thinks Emma would be upset if he damaged it.

(She’ll probably be upset about the chair.)

So he paces back and forth between the kitchen and the living room, hands shaking with the desire to grab something and hurl it at a wall, resisting only because Ian already witnessed the demise of their kitchen chair and Killian doesn’t want to set any more bad examples than he has to right now .

Has he mentioned that it’s been _hours_?

Hours since the Black Fairy took Emma. Hours since the Apprentice arrived with a locator spell. Hours since that locator spell failed—blocked by the Black Fairy’s dark magic, somehow.

(Which is what sent Killian hunting for furniture to smash.)

The Apprentice and Regina are currently holed up in the reading nook, arguing in whispers while Sarah listens, her eyes locked on the Black Fairy’s knife bundled up in a hand towel in Regina’s lap—the only thing the three of them could say for certain is that the knife is coated with the potion that causes the Sleeping Curse.

“That doesn’t make sense,” Snow said, when Regina made the announcement. “Why would the Black Fairy put Emma under a Sleeping Curse?”

“You mean, why didn’t the Black Fairy just kill her and be done with it?” Regina corrected.

“Watch it!” Killian growled, thinking of Ian, but Ian was on the other side of the room with David.

He’s _still_ with David—in his arms, to be exact. David’s pacing a route parallel to Killian’s. Ian’s head is on David’s shoulder but he’s still stubbornly awake; whenever his eyelids droop he snaps them open again and scowls at himself.

Killian should be the one holding Ian, comforting him…but he can’t. He can barely bring himself to look at the boy, and when he _does_ look it’s only when he’s certain Ian’s not looking back.

Killian can’t meet his eye—or Henry’s, for that matter.

He’s too ashamed.

He was supposed to protect Emma but he couldn’t save her. He let her be taken.

Savagely, he whirls towards Regina, Sarah, and the Apprentice. “This is ridiculous!” he bursts. “We’re wasting time. We need to start searching.”

“The locator spell failed because Emma’s location is cloaked by very powerful dark magic,” Regina returns calmly, one eyebrow arched. “We won’t be _able_ to find her no matter how hard we search—we could be standing right next to her and not know it.”

“When _I _was kidnapped,” Killian says, choosing his words carefully because Ian still doesn’t know that it was Henry’s father who tied him to a dock piling and left him to drown, “_my_ location was also cloaked by magic and yet Emma still found me.”

“That’s because Emma has light magic. Do _you_ have light magic?”

Growling, he turns away and resumes his pacing. He passes David and Ian and David reaches out for him but Killian shoves his hand away; he’s too afraid of how angry he feels—he might punch David in the mouth just for trying to be nice.

Killian reaches the kitchen, where Ruby, Will, Smee, and Robin are gathered. Robin’s standing by the kitchen table with his arms folded over his chest, probably guarding the remainder of the chairs. Will’s sifting through Ian’s puzzle pieces. Killian’s feet touch the tiles and he turns again, back towards the living room, towards Snow and David and Henry.

He _hates_ how crowded the house is.

(And yet, he can’t imagine being alone right now.)

“What about the spiders?” Snow says suddenly.

“What about them?” Regina asks.

“The two from today. The one we couldn’t find…How do they figure into this?”

Killian pauses his pacing. “The two from today were probably a distraction.” His voice is gravelly, his throat still raw from the scream he let out when Emma disappeared and from the bruises ringing his neck. “The Black Fairy must have come through with one of them.”

Snow’s eyes flutter shut and her shoulders slump. “And then she went and hid with the spider we never found,” she whispers.

“_That’s_ why she’s been sending them. To scout for hideouts.”

_And we let it go_.

_We should have tracked it down and killed it like the others._

His wrath peaks in an instant and he seizes the nearest breakable object. It’s Emma’s ceramic Christmas tree with tiny lights that prick his palm, and before he can contemplate how devastated Emma will be when she finds it broken he’s chucking it across the room—only he’s not, actually, because Robin grabs his arm and Henry plucks the tree from his hand.

“C’mon, not the _tree_,” he mutters as he replaces it on the table.

Killian roughly shrugs off Robin’s hands. “I’m sorry,” he grumbles, and although his fury is still boiling hot he _is_ genuinely sorry.

“Perhaps you’d like to step outside for a moment,” Robin suggests softly.

“No. I’m fine.”

“Are you certain? I’ll let you punch me, if that’s what it’ll take for you to get your head on straight.”

Killian looks at him sharply, a barb on his tongue, but Robin’s serious.

The storm inside of him settles a bit, enough for rational thought to penetrate the red cloud fogging his brain.

“You’re right,” he admits, cheeks heating. “I’ve been behaving poorly.”

Something makes him look over at Ian then. Ian’s staring back, and when their eyes meet Ian wiggles in David’s arms. David blinks at him and then hastily lowers him to the floor. Ian rushes over and crashes into Killian and Killian drops to one knee and sweeps him into a crushing hug, burying his face in Ian’s hair.

“I’m sorry,” he says again.

Ian tightens his arms around Killian’s neck. Killian can’t tell if Ian smells like Emma or if he just smells like their home and it reminds Killian of Emma. He stands, lifting Ian with him, and resumes his pacing, now more to soothe Ian than to distract himself.

“Can we perhaps try tracking the spider?” he wonders, when his route brings him near Regina and the Apprentice.

“Only if you have one of the spider’s personal possessions,” Regina replies. “Think he collects hats?”

“What about hair or blood?” David offers.

“If we had _that_ spider’s blood…yes, probably.”

“Can’t we use some from one of the dead spiders?” Snow asks. “We have plenty.”

Regina rolls her eyes. “That’s like asking if you could track Robin using _my_ hair; we’re both human but we’re two different humans. And anyway…” She exchanges glances with Sarah and the Apprentice. “We think we have a solution.”

Killian’s halfway to the kitchen but he turns on his heel. “What is it?”

Regina rises to her feet, cradling the towel-wrapped knife against her stomach.

“Emma’s under a Sleeping Curse,” she says. “Which means her soul is currently in the Netherworld.”

“Aye?” Killian prompts.

“If someone else were to be put under a Sleeping Curse, their soul would also travel to the Netherworld and they could make contact with Emma’s soul.”

“How would that help us find her?”

“The victim of a Sleeping Curse is still aware of everything going on around them,” Snow supplies. She’s speaking to Killian, but her eyes are on the Black Fairy’s knife. “Emma might know where she is based on what she’s hearing.”

“She might _not_ though,” David cautions, brows pinched. “I mean, I doubt the Black Fairy’s just sitting there talking about how wonderful the view from her hideout is.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Killian says, already striding towards Regina. “That’s a risk I’m willing to take. I’ll go.” He shifts Ian in his arms to free his hand, and reaches for the knife.

“Stop!” Regina barks, jerking the knife out of range. “There’s a better way.”

“Why didn’t you lead with it then?” Killian demands through gritted teeth.

“Because you’re not going to like it,” the Apprentice says. His stands and fixes Killian with a stern stare. “When Ian was astral projecting in his sleep, his soul was drawn to the Black Fairy.”

“_No_,” Killian objects automatically, realizing exactly where this is going.

Regina ignores him, and continues, “If we took the binding spell off of Ian and put him to sleep then his soul would very likely travel right to the Black Fairy again—right to where _Emma_ is.”

“Absolutely not.”

“I wanna do it,” Ian says.

Killian almost laughs. They never told Ian what his dreams really were; he thinks that the night the Apprentice came to their house it was to put a special spell on him to keep his nightmares away.

“Ian you’re not—do you even understand what they’re asking you to do?”

Ian looks at him for a long minute, their faces mere inches away, then shakes his head.

Killian sighs. “Ian…”

“I don’t _care_,” he growls. “I wanna get mom back.”

“This _is_ your best chance,” Regina insists.

“I said _no_, goddammit, and that’s fi-“

“What does he have to do?” Henry asks.

_Are you bloody kidding me?_

Killian rounds on Henry but Regina’s still ignoring him and speaks right over the noises of protest he’s making.

“All Ian has to do is go to sleep,” she says.

“Go to sleep and find Emma and then figure out where she is,” Sarah amends. “Without getting caught by the Black Fairy.”

They’ve all lost their minds, Killian decides. “You can’t possible expect him to do all that alone,” he reasons.

Regina acknowledges him with a smirk. “Then someone should go with him.”

“Pardon?”

“_Someone should go with him_,” Regina repeats, in a tone of voice implying that she thinks he’s an idiot.

“How?”

Regina turns to the Apprentice.

“There’s a spell to do the reverse of what I did to Ian,” the Apprentice explains. “The same way a soul can be bound to its body, it can be…unbound.”

“_Un_bound?” Killian asks.

“Temporarily, of course.”

“And then…what, exactly?”

“And then that person’s soul can accompany Ian and help him find Emma.”

“I’ll do it,” Henry volunteers.

Killian’s temper is edging dangerously close to table-flipping levels again. “_I’m_ going,” he snaps, glowering. “You’re staying here and you’re staying safe. I already let your mother get taken; I’m not letting the both of you get taken right alongside her.”

His voice breaks near the end and he has to clench his jaw shut to keep the rest of him from breaking as well.

Henry stares. “Killian…you didn’t_ let_ my mom get taken.”

“It’s not your fault,” David adds. “There’s nothing you could have done.”

“I could have saved her!” Killian erupts, anguish rising in his chest.

The memory of Emma in the street, the Black Fairy grabbing her, slashing her hand with a knife…it plays over and over in his head like a movie. If he had been faster, driven home faster, made Emma stay at the bar with him, not even gone after Liam at all—perhaps he could have prevented this.

“You can save her _now_, mate. Don’t you see?” It’s Robin, his voice quiet and sensible and a touch cajoling—definitely the same voice he must use to reason with Roland.

Thin arms hug Killian’s neck. He closes his eyes and turns his face, his nose brushing Ian’s cheek.

Robin’s right: Killian can’t go back in time. He can only move forward and do everything within his power to get Emma back.

“Alright,” he says, to the Apprentice. “What do I have to do?”

\---

The Apprentice orders Killian to remove his shirt, and Regina summons her jar of unicorn blood.

“This is humiliating,” Killian mutters as he strips off his vest and begins unbuttoning his shirt one handed.

“We can all get shirtless if that would make you feel more comfortable,” David offers.

“Sure, I’m in,” Robin says.

“Yep.” Will grabs the hem of his sweater and peels it off in one smooth, practiced motion.

Killian scowls. “Scarlet, put your shirt back on or I’ll put you out on the porch.”

Ian, sitting on the coffee table, giggles. Will winks at him and replaces his sweater.

Killian untucks his shirt to finish unbuttoning it, then jerks it off of his shoulders and tosses it over the armchair beside his vest.

“Now what?” he demands, steadfastly avoiding the gaze of everyone in the room save for the Apprentice, who gestures towards the sofa.

“Lie down,” he says.

_Bloody fucking hell_.

“Is that really necessary?” he asks. He can feel Robin and David’s smiles and he wonders if they’re both still drunk from whatever was in their tulip glasses at The Rabbit Hole.

“Oh, stop complaining,” Regina drawls. “_You_ volunteered for this, remember?”

Killian shuts up but he glares at her all the way to the sofa.

(It’s probably good that she keeps him in check but he can’t bring himself to appreciate it at the moment.)

He lays down, as ordered, eager to hide the scars covering his back—he knows they’ve all seen them before, courtesy of all the days they spent at the beach over the summer, but he still doesn’t enjoy having them on display.

Everyone draws slowly closer to the sofa as the Apprentice takes the jar of unicorn blood from Regina and uncaps it.

Killian folds his hand over his hook, settles them atop his navel, and tries to pretend he’s literally anywhere else—being tortured by Lost Boys would be less painful than having so many eyes on his naked torso.

The Apprentice leans over him. Ian drops to his knees beside the sofa and leans in even closer. Killian picks a spot on the ceiling and contemplates it.

“Alright, I’m ready,” he says, then takes a deep breath and holds it.

“This might be cold,” the Apprentice murmurs, just before he presses several freezing fingers to the center of Killian’s chest.

Startled, Killian jolts and hisses. He can neither see nor understand by feel alone what the Apprentice is inscribing, but Ian’s watching with astonishment.

“And now,” the Apprentice says, removing his fingers from Killian’s chest, “you might feel…strange.”

“Strange?” Killian blinks at him, and then he begins to float away.

“Wait!” he gasps. “Ian—we never explained-“

“You can explain it to him when he joins you. Just relax.”

_Relax? _Killian wants to scream—he feels as if he’s in two places at once, lying on the couch and also drifting lazily towards the ceiling, as weightless as a feather. He didn’t expect this to happen so fast, he thought there would be more time.

“What-” he starts, but the Apprentice passes his hand through the air over Killian’s face, from brow to chin, and everything goes black.

* * *

“Is he asleep?” Ian asks.

“Yes,” the Apprentice says.

Frowning, Ian turns to look at him. “Is it my turn?”

“Yes.”

“Do I have to take my shirt off too?”

The Apprentice chuckles. “No.”

He puts the jar of the glittery stuff that he put on his dad’s chest on the table—Ian really _really_ wants to put his finger in it but he doesn’t think that would be polite—and then he takes a wand out of his pocket.

“Do you remember the dreams you used to have?” the Apprentice asks. “The ones about the black feather lady?”

“Yea,” Ian answers.

“Can you tell me about them?”

Ian shrugs. He doesn’t like to think about those dreams. They were scary and they felt like real-life and that made them even scarier. _Super_ scary.

“Were they like your other dreams?” the Apprentice continues, in a gentle voice. “Or were they…different?”

“Different,” Ian says.

“What was different about them?”

Ian shrugs again. “I would go to sleep but then I’d wake up again and I’d be standing next to my bed—only I don’t think I was _really_ standing there because I could see my body on the bed so it must have been a dream. And then the _other_ dream would start.”

“The other dream?”

“The one with the black feather lady. In the dark place.”

The Apprentice makes a face like he’s sad and nods his head, the he takes a big deep breath, raises his wands, and wiggles it in a weird circle.

Ian shivers—it feels like something wet and cold is dripping down his forehead and his chest and around his ankles and wrists. Ian looks at his wrists but they’re dry, and when he touches his forehead it’s dry too.

The Apprentice lowers his wand and puts it back in his pocket. “How do you feel?”

“Itchy,” Ian says. The wet feeling is gone but now the places that felt wet feel itchy. He tries to scratch both his forehead and chest at the same time but the itchy feeling doesn’t go away.

“Do you feel anything else other than itchy?”

“No.” He _does_ feel different though. Like he could float up to the ceiling if he wanted to, or like his body is just a suit he’s wearing and he could step out of it in a heartbeat and go somewhere else and leave it behind.

He feels like that sometimes when he’s in bed, right before he falls asleep—not _all_ the time, but sometimes. Usually he has the dreams about the black feather lady afterwards.

“Alright, Ian. Time to lie down.”

“Huh?” Ian looks at the couch his dad’s on, but there’s no room.

“Over here,” his grandma says. She’s pointing at the other couch, the one with two cushions that his mom calls the loveseat.

Ian goes and lies on that couch. The Apprentice follows him and stands next to the couch and Henry, grandma Snow, and grandpa David stand next to him.

All of a sudden Ian feels nervous, that wiggly, snakes-in-his-tummy feeling.

“What’s gonna happen?” he asks. They were talking about him earlier, but he only sort of understood what they were saying.

“First,” the Apprentice says, “I’m going to make you fall asleep like I just made your father fall asleep. Is that okay?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Once you fall asleep, you’re going to wake up outside of your body.”

“Like my dreams sometimes,” Ian says, helpfully.

“Yes, like the dreams you have sometimes. Only this time your father will be there too. He needs to go with you into that other dream, so-“

“To the dark place?” Ian asks.

He doesn’t want to go to the dark place again.

The Apprentice reaches out and puts his hand on top of Ian’s hand. “You won’t be going to the dark place, Ian, but the black feather lady _will_ be in this other place you’re going to.” He pauses, and the snakes wriggle faster in Ian’s tummy. “You won’t be afraid, will you? Because it’s very, very important that you and your father are able to figure out _where_ this other place you’re going to is.”

Ian thinks about it for a second, then he shakes his head. “No, I’m not afraid.”

They have to rescue mom so he _can’t_ be afraid. Plus, his dad’s probably not afraid so Ian’s not going to be afraid either.

_So stop it, stupid snakes! _he thinks—the snakes don’t stop, but they get a little quieter.

The Apprentice smiles at him. “Good. Now, as I was saying, when you wake up your father will be there—you need to grab onto him as quickly as you can and don’t let go. Understand?”

It sounds pretty easy, and Ian’s the fastest kid in 1st grade, so he nods.

“Alright, Ian. Good luck.”

The Apprentice waves his hand over Ian’s face like he waved his hand over his dad’s face. Ian hears Henry say, “_Be careful_,” and then he’s asleep.

* * *

Killian’s standing outside his body, watching. He feels normal, yet indescribably separate from everyone else around him, as if he’s simultaneously there and not there.

Curiously, he tests the limits of his new environment.

He touches the lamp and discovers that he can touch it but not move it; he lays his hand on Henry’s shoulder next but Henry doesn’t react, and when Killian tries to push him, nothing happens.

“Henry?” he tries. Once again there’s no reaction from Henry, but Sarah’s head swivels around and for a split second she’s looking at him as though she can actually see him—but then she blinks and the moment’s lost, though she continues to stare around with narrowed eyes as though searching for him.

_That’s interesting_, Killian thinks. Sarah’s magic must make her different. Killian’s about to test this theory on Regina, but the Apprentice stands and shuffles Ian over to the empty loveseat.

Killian leaves his body behind and follows them—out of the corner of his eye he sees Sarah take the blanket that’s draped over the back of the sofa Killian’s body is lying on and cover him with it.

He smiles to himself. He can’t feel his real body anymore, but he appreciates her concern nonetheless.

(He also appreciates that he woke up with all his clothes on, despite his real body lying there shirtless.)

The Apprentice is standing over Ian, talking to him.

_“You won’t be afraid, will you?”_

Killian hates that Regina is right; he hates that Ian is their best chance right now.

_“No, I’m not afraid.”_

He shouldn’t have to be involved in this. This is the price Killian didn’t want Ian to have to pay for the “gift” of his magic.

(That the Bean might also have magic is a terrifying thought…)

_“Alright, Ian. Good luck.” _

Tension coils in Killian’s gut.

Ian closes his eyes.

The Apprentice passes his hand over Ian’s face.

And then there are two Ians, one lying on the loveseat and one standing beside Killian. The one next to Killian looks up at him in surprise and then quickly grabs his hand—in an instant, they’re somewhere else, the crowded living room with its warm, soft lighting replaced by darkness.

Killian squeezes Ian’s hand hard and freezes.

It takes several long, agonizingly slow seconds for his eyes to adjust, for the darkness to resolves into dim shapes, for him to recognize those shapes—to realize they’re in some sort of house.

Silently, he tugs Ian by the hand into a corner, and crouches down, surveying their surroundings.

He thinks they’re in an entrance hall. To either side are huge open doorways that lead into equally enormous rooms; ahead there’s a pair of closed double doors; above there’s a balcony that wraps around the entire perimeter of the room, and beyond the balcony railing Killian sees more doorways.

“Dad?” Ian whispers.

“Yes, lad?”

“Is this a dream?”

Killian’s eyes find Ian’s in the gloom. “No, Ian, this is real. This is your magic.”

He rotates at the waist to rest his hand and hook on Ian’s arms. He shouldn’t be the one trying to explain this, but he doesn’t see any way around it.

“When you sleep, sometimes your magic lets you be in two places at once,” he says. “Part of you is sleeping, but part of you is here.”

“Is _mom_ here?”

“Aye.”

Killian hopes so, at least.

“Is the black feather lady here too?”

“Yes,” Killian replies. “So we have to be very quiet. Ok?”

“Ok…”

Killian rises from his crouch, slips his fingers once more into Ian’s, and follows the wall to the left, into the next room. He treads lightly and carefully, Ian silent in his socks by his side. They pass through the first room—which is empty—into another room, which is also empty but full of cobwebs.

_Fuck_.

He hopes the spider’s not still alive, and if it is, he prays that they don’t run into it; he doesn’t know if the Black Fairy’s spiders would be able to see them, and he’s not anxious to find out.

They’re halfway the next doorway when the ceiling overhead creaks, and they halt.

Killian holds his breath, ears straining, staring at the ceiling. He never asked a very important question—perhaps the _most_ important question: how will they get out? When they need to leave this place and wake up, will they be able to?

If the Black Fairy descends upon them, will they be at her mercy? Or will Ian’s magic enable them to escape? To the cold place he went to before, perhaps—or just anywhere the Black Fairy can’t follow.

A minute passes, but there are no more sounds from above. Killian exhales, and continues pulling Ian forward.

They pass through a parade of empty rooms shrouded with cobwebs, some more densely than others, until they reach what Killian judges to be the back right corner of the house and emerge into a room that seems to be made entirely of windows.

It’s a conservatory, like the one they have at home only much larger and not full of Emma’s tiny pots of herbs. The webs are bright and silvery, shimmering in the light from the moon streaming in through the windows, and hanging in the center of the room, bound in a cocoon, the toes of her boots barely scraping the floor, is Emma.

“Mom!” Ian says, far too loudly. He rips his hand from Killian’s but Killian’s faster; he snags Ian around the middle with his hook arm and covers his mouth.

“Shhh!” he hisses urgently, even as another creak from upstairs pierces the silence.

Ian goes still in his arms.

“It’s alright,” Killian murmurs, his lips to Ian’s ear. “We’re nearly finished. We just need to keep quiet and-”

“_Ian?_”

The Black Fairy’s voice is faint, distant, but it turns the blood in Killian’s veins to ice and his knees to water.

“Ian, is that you?”

_Shit._

Killian clutches Ian closer.

“I was hoping you’d find me here,” the Black Fairy calls, her voice still distant but growing gradually louder, occasional groans from the ceiling announcing her movements. “It’s been so long since last we played our little game. What _happened_?”

Killian guesses the staircase is somewhere near where they were when they first arrived—they have mere minutes before the Black Fairy finds them.

He looks wildly from side to side; they know now that Emma’s here they just need to figure out where _here_ is.

He races to the least cobwebby window, dragging Ian with him. Through the glass he sees a wide swathe of smooth, unmarred snow glowing a pale white beneath the night sky. The ground appears to both slope upwards and end abruptly.

_The cliffs. _

But which ones? Storybrooke has miles of cliffs.

He scans the ground for something familiar, some landmark—but all he sees is snow.

“Are you ready to play, Ian?” The Black Fairy’s on the first floor now, but still several rooms away. “You hide, and I’ll come find you.”

“_Dad_,” Ian groans. Killian can feel the boy’s ribs vibrating from the rapid hammering of his heart.

“10…” the Black Fairy counts. “9…”

Killian looks up, at the stars, and squints.

“8…”

_There!_

Orion, hovering in the sky.

“7…”

But Orion’s not where he usually is. He’s to Killian’s right, when usually he’s more to the left.

“6…”

Which means they’re to the north of town.

“5…”

The cliffs to the north of town—that’ll have to do.

“4…”

Killian turns to Ian.

“Ian, we need to leave. Can you take us somewhere else?”

Ian’s breathing hard through clenched teeth, brows pinched together, both of his hands wrapped around Killian’s hook.

“3…”

Killian drops to his knees and cups the side of Ian’s face.

“Ian, look at me,” he says sharply. Ian’s eyes focus on Killian’s. There are tears sparkling there and Killian will probably regret this for the rest of his life. “This is _your_ magic, Ian. You can control it. You can take us somewhere else. I need you to try that—can you try that?”

Ian nods, but then he looks towards where Emma’s body is still hanging in midair. “I don’t want to leave mom here,” he says.

“We have to.” He forces the words out of his mouth and the effort tears his heart in two. “We can’t save her right now. We need to wake up so we can come get her.”

“But-“

“_There you are!_”

Something hits Killian in the face and sweeps him aside. He greets the floor with his rear—the impact of it jarring his bones—and skids backwards, heels scraping the tiles.

The Black Fairy is standing in his place, holding Ian by the wrist. Ian’s struggling, thrashing like a rabbit caught in a snare—and to the same effect.

“Finally,” the Black Fairy murmurs, unperturbed by the heel Ian thrusts into her kneecap. “I’ve been waiting for this for a _very_ long time…”

She jerks Ian’s wrist higher, driving him onto his tiptoes, and reaches for his chest.

Killian bellows wordlessly as he lunges to his feet and dives for the Black Fairy. His hand grazes her arm just as her fingers brush Ian’s t-shirt. A burst of light sends the Black Fairy reeling backwards and blinds Killian—he puts his body in front of Ian and lashes out.

He feels his hook meet resistance, the all-too-familiar feeling of it tearing into flesh, and then his vision goes entirely black.

He blinks rapidly, but the darkness doesn’t disappear.

“Ian?” he ventures. The way his voice sounds in his own ears tells him they’re in a small, enclosed space.

“Here.”

A hand touches the small of Killian’s back and he whips around to pull Ian into his arms, pressing his face into Ian’s hair, choking back a sob.

“Are you alright?” he asks. “Are you hurt?”

“I’m okay.”

Slowly, Killian sinks to the floor, taking Ian with him.

“I’m sorry, Ian. I’m so sorry. I never should have put you in danger. I should have-“

“Killian?”

Emma’s voice is like a caress, the soft touch of a warm breeze on the back of his neck. Suddenly, there’s light, just enough to see Emma by. Killian doesn’t know where she came from, but she’s there now, sitting beside them.

“Mom!” Ian shouts, and he jumps out of Killian’s lap and into Emma’s.

Emma catches Ian and hugs him tight, but she throws Killian a bewildered look over Ian’s head. “How are you here?”

Killian grins. “It’s a long story, love. I’ll tell you when you’re awake.” He looks past her, at what looks like a wall made of mirrors. “Where are we?”

“I don’t know. The Netherworld, I guess.” Emma rests her head against Ian’s and rocks him from side to side. “I keep having dreams about my past and then waking back up here. How long have I been here?”

“A few hours.”

“We_ found_ you,” Ian says.

Emma looks down at him with raised eyebrows. “You did?”

“Aye, love,” Killian confirms. “We did. We’re coming for you.”

Her eyes widen, as if she only just remembered something, and then one of her hands leaves Ian’s back and grabs him by the shirtsleeve.

“Killian. I know what she wants.”

Killian’s relief evaporates, and the first cold tendrils of fear creep in, curling around his stomach. “What is it, love?”

“She doesn’t want _me_,” Emma says. “She wants…”

Emma trails off with a grimace. She doesn’t finish her sentence, but Killian doesn’t need her to.

“_No_,” he breathes. _Not the baby_.

“She _wants_ you to find me, Killian. She wants you to try to wake me up with True Love’s kiss to see…to see if…”

_To see if the Bean is a product of True Love._

Killian rolls his arm in her grasp until his fingers find hers. “I won’t let her hurt you, Emma.”

He sees her swallow. “Find me,” she whispers.

“I will, love.”

No sooner do the words leave his lips than he’s waking up. He opens his eyes to find himself back in his own living room, lying shirtless on his back on the sofa.

As if he somehow sensed that Killian woke up, David appears, craning over the back of the sofa, peering down at him with a crease between his brows. “Killian?”

“I know where Emma is.”


	16. Chapter 16

Killian and Ian vanish, leaving Emma alone again. Gradually, the warmth that Ian left behind fades; Emma hugs herself, trying to hold onto the last little bit of it, trying to keep their presence from disappearing entirely.

_They’re coming_.

That’s both comforting and frightening at the same time—she wants to leave this place and she wants to get the hell away from the Black Fairy, but she knows the only way that’s happening is for Killian to kiss her and break the Sleeping Curse, and the problem is…

The problem is Emma doesn’t know what the Black Fairy’s plan is for after.

_“If his kiss doesn't wake you, then this entire endeavor is pointless.”_

She wants the baby. Because it’s the product of True Love. Like Emma. And…maybe like Ian—or maybe not, although the True Love’s kiss that Emma and Killian shared in Neverland was technically before Ian was conceived, so…

So who knows.

Emma’s arms slip lower, from her ribs to her belly, cradling it protectively.

Is the Black Fairy going to try and take the baby now? It’s the size of a freaking strawberry. Will she try to hold Emma captive until the baby’s born? Take her to the Dark Realm, maybe? Will she leave and return in 6 months?

_Fuck_.

Emma’s not ready for this fight. She has no idea how she’s supposed to defeat the Black Fairy, if she’s supposed to wield some sort of sacred weapon or find a hidden power deep inside of her or if it’s just supposed to be like a cage match to the death—which, if it’s the latter, Emma doesn’t think she’s actual competition for the Black Fairy.

Abruptly, the light around her grows dimmer, and one of the mirrors lights up, images flickering to life inside of it, images from her past.

Emma sighs. Time for another trip down regretful memory lane.

\---

It’s dawn by the time they locate the house, a sprawling two story mansion far to the north of town. It faces away from the cliff edge and the sea, so they end up approaching it from the side, from the same back corner Killian’s certain the conservatory is in.

They stop in a small copse of trees to catch their breath and to plan; the Merry Men go on ahead and do what they do best: surround the place and blend in.

"I don't remember this being here," David says, frowning at the house.

"I don't think this _was_ here," Robin comments.

"It's definitely not on any of the maps," Snow confirms, in consternation. “And I don’t remember approving any building permits for up here.”

“Well, it didn’t just _magically_ appear,” Will drawls.

Everyone turns to Will with raised eyebrows. His cheeks, already flushed pink from the cold, darken.

“What?” he demands.

“Nothing,” Robin responds mildly. “I just can’t decide if you’re being sarcastic or if a magic house is truly beyond your comprehension.”

“It’s a_ house_, mate! How could a house just appear out of nowhere?”

“Scarlet, you’ve been to _Wonderland_—how are you dumbfounded by a magic house?”

“First of all, calling me dumb is just plain rude, mate. Secondly, I’m not dumbfounded, I’m skeptical.”

“All the same, how are you skeptical about a magic house?”

“That’s if it even _is_ a magic house-”

“Knock it off,” Killian rumbles. He knows bickering is their method of coping with stress, but he’s in no mood for it; his body feels like a lumpy sack of aches and pains held together solely by Pokémon Band-Aids, and although a couple of Advil dulled the pain a bit, Ibuprofen is no shield against the cold.

Robin and Will fall silent, and Killian refocuses his attention on the house, nervous anticipation thrumming through him once more.

She’s there. She _right_ there.

_Emma_.

If what she told him in the Netherworld is true, then the Black Fairy will allow Killian to reach her, to wake her with True Love’s kiss…

_But then what?_

Once the Black Fairy receives confirmation that the child inside of Emma is the product of True Love, what will she do?

Killian supposes that all depends on what the Black Fairy wants their baby _for_—Regina muttered that the number of spells involving baby parts would surprise him, but Killian refuses to contemplate that.

(He will _lose his mind_ if he contemplates that.)

In any case, the Black Fairy must need the baby to be fully developed, otherwise she could have taken what she wanted without the hassle of putting Emma under a Sleeping Curse, which ultimately leaves two options: the Black Fairy will either try to whisk Emma away to the Dark Realm and hold her captive until she gives birth, or she’ll leave them and return in 6 months or so, try to take the baby then.

Killian’s hoping for the latter, because the moment he gets Emma to safety they’re leaving for Boston; Smee, Henry, and Ian are already aboard the Jolly Roger, waiting.

(With strict instructions not to let Ian fall asleep.)

“How much longer?” Will asks quietly, rolling his shoulders in his coat.

“Depends on him,” Killian answers, and turns around to peer back the way they came. A hundred yards or so behind them is the Apprentice, trudging slowly but steadily through the snow, Sarah walking patiently at his side.

Killian regrets having to drag the old man along, but they need his magic and his expertise.

It takes another two minutes for the Apprentice to reach them, and when he does, he looks up at the house, plants his fists on his hips, and says, “Ah. I was wondering where it had run off to.”

Killian, in the middle of shedding the parka he wore over his jacket to keep warm, pauses. “What?”

“This is not where I left it,” the Apprentice replies, as though that explains it.

David looks from the Apprentice to the house and then back. “You’re talking about the house?”

“Yes. It moved.”

“_Moved?_”

“It does that, from time to time. Last I saw it, it was to the west.”

Robin clears his throat, and cocks an eyebrow. “So, it’s a…_magic_ house?”

“You could say that.”

(_“See?” Robin hisses at Will._

_“Shut up!” Will hisses back_.)

“If the spider is here,” the Apprentice continues, “it must have been drawn to the house’s magic.”

“Is this _your_ house?” Snow ventures.

The Apprentice shakes his head. “My master’s.” As he gazes at the house, he begins to frown. “We must hope that the Black Fairy remains ignorant as to whom this house belonged.”

“Why?”

“Merlin dedicated the final years of his life to destroying the Black Fairy. All of his research is there, inside the house.”

“And…if she _already_ figured it out?” Snow asks.

“Then she could very well have destroyed the best chance we have of defeating her.”

Regina, who’s been sullenly silent up until now, turns to the Apprentice, and from the depths of her black fur hood, snarls, “Why didn’t you mention this before?”

The Apprentice shrugs, infuriatingly casual. “I knew it would show up sooner or later, and looking for it tends to make it…shy.”

Regina rolls her eyes. Killian squeezes his shut before he does something worse.

He’s tired of this Final Battle prophecy, tired of those who claim to know something about it refusing to offer any explanation for how Emma figures into it, what her role will be—and all this time there’s been a magical house floating around containing information that could tell them _exactly_ how to kill the Black Fairy…

A hot wave of anger rises in his chest; he embraces it, but he holds on tightly, keeping it contained.

Not here. Not now. This isn’t the time. Spending his fury here is pointless.

“Let’s go get Emma back,” David murmurs.

Killian opens his eyes. David’s hand is on his arm, pale blue gaze steady. Killian takes a deep breath and nods; he’s ready.

Robin, Will, David, and Snow shed their puffy coats, thick gloves, and scarves, anything that might inhibit movement. Will plucks the knit hat off of his head and drops it atop the pile of coats, but Robin snatches it up and stuffs it back into his hands.

“You were_ just_ sick,” Robin grumbles.

“So?” Will counters.

“So, you’re going to get sick again if you don’t take care of yourself.”

“That’s not how colds work.”

“That is _exactly_ how colds work,” Ruby says. She wore only jeans and a sweatshirt, apparently as impervious to the cold as Sarah.

Will glares, but he dons his hat.

When everyone is ready, they move, taking off through the snow at a fast walk, following the path Sarah makes for them through the snow. The forest to their left is quiet, but to the right the sea roars on, the crashing of its waves against the cliffs the only sound in the frigid air besides their harsh breaths.

They reach the glass wall of the conservatory without impediment, and pause, huddling in the shadows beside the ornate door.

“I don’t like how easy that was,” Snow mutters.

“She _wants_ us to get inside,” David reminds her. “She wants Killian to wake up Emma.”

Both of them accepted Killian’s tale of the True Love’s kiss he and Emma shared in Neverland without resistance.

David adjusts his grip on his sword, then turns to the others. “Remember, don’t try to engage the Black Fairy directly.”

“She’s far too powerful,” Sarah warns. “Bedwyr, Regina, and I will try to hold her off long enough for Killian to wake Emma, and then we’ll all make our escape.”

“We’re getting in, we’re getting Emma, and we’re getting out.”

Everyone nods. They’re wearing the charms against dark magic that Emma made for them in the summer. Killian has no idea how effective they’ll be against the Black Fairy, but it’s better than nothing.

The conservatory door is unlocked. Killian eases it open and slips through, drawing his cutlass as he goes.

He doesn’t know what he expects: the Black Fairy to be there, a giant spider to descend from the eaves and attack…but the conservatory is empty, the silence thick and the air smelling heavily of dust.

Emma is exactly where he and Ian left her hours earlier. Killian takes a few steps forward, eyes fixed on her body, wrapped in a cocoon of cobwebs, distantly aware of the others filing into the room behind him and spreading out; he tiptoes closer and closer, breath held, waiting for the metaphorical axe to fall—but it never does. He reaches Emma unscathed, and sheathes his cutlass.

“Help me cut her down,” he orders quietly.

David and Will flank Killian instantly. Will passes David one of his knives and they begin sawing at the cobwebs on either side of Emma.

Delicately, with hand and hook, Killian pulls the cobwebs away from Emma’s face, from her cheeks and lips, away from her eyelashes and off of her brow; she’s pale and she’s not breathing, and Killian knows that’s normal, knows that it’s just an effect of the Sleeping Curse, but it sends a jolt of terror through him.

_We need to get her out of here._

His composure melts away, and his hand begins to shake; he tears his gaze from Emma’s face and focuses on his fingers and hook tip, focuses on removing the webs from around her neck.

The seconds drag on, become minutes, until gradually they work Emma free. She slumps forward, into Killian’s waiting arms. Slowly he lowers her to the floor, sinking down with her, cradling her head and shoulders in his lap while David and Will continue to hack at the cobwebs still binding her legs and feet.

_This is it_, Killian thinks. _This is the moment. _

He has to kiss her. He has to wake her up.

Another, mocking voice inside of him asks, _What if it doesn’t work?_ _What if you kiss her here in front of everyone and nothing happens?_

It _should_ work—it worked before. But…but what if something changed? What if before was just a fluke?

Killian was confident up until this moment, but now…

Startled voices from above make him jerk his head up and crane around.

The Black Fairy is standing behind him, in the darkened doorway of the conservatory, her gown of black feathers blending with the shadows.

“Don’t mind me,” she says with a smile. “Carry on.”

“What do you want?” Killian growls.

“Your children,” she replies sweetly. “Haven’t you figured that out yet?”

Killian’s clenching his teeth so hard he thinks they’ll shatter. “Why?” he grounds out.

“Because I’m _starving_, dear—magically speaking, that is.” She gives a tittering laugh and strolls forward, hands clasped behind her back.

“You’re disgusting,” Sarah sneers.

“And _you’re_ naïve.” The Black Fairy tilts her chin up, and as her face catches the gray light from the windows Killian sees a long scratch down one side of her face. “You’ll never know _true_ power if you insist on being so squeamish. If you’d like, I can show you how to-“

“_Fuck you_,” Sarah spits, and Killian’s so startled by her use of language that he fails to notice the blast of arctic wind that rips by him.

“Killian, now!” someone barks.

Killian startles and looks back down at Emma. She looks peaceful, and somehow—whether of their own accord or because they were placed there by David or Will—her hands are covering her belly.

_Find me_, she’d said.

She’s trusting Killian to wake her.

She _believes_ that he’ll wake her.

So why for one bloody second can’t he have the same confidence?

_Idiot_, he tells himself.

He shakes his head once, then he leans down, whispers, “I love you, Emma,” and kisses her.

At first her lips are strangely stiff, but then they soften and mold to his; he feels them part, the tiniest movement. Emma exhales softly, and Killian sees a flash of rainbow light through his eyelids. A warm tingle rushes through him, from his lips to the top of his skull and then down to his toes.

“_Killian,_” Emma says, against his mouth. Her voice fills his hears, and all other sound falls away.

He clutches her closer. “Emma.”

Her arms snake around his back, one of her hands buries itself in the hair at the nape of his neck. His lips are still on hers, they never left; he presses his nose into her cheek, inhaling.

“Emma, I-“

“Not the time, you two!” Will yells.

His voice jars Killian back to reality, and the noise in the conservatory hits Killian like a physical blow.

The room is in chaos. There are three spiders swarming the conservatory, arrows and multicolored bursts of magic crowding the air, shouting, people running back and forth, a giant section of cobwebs is on fire, and, somewhere, the Black Fairy is cackling.

Will’s pulling on his jacket. “We have to go!”

Killian stands, tugging Emma with him. Will moves to Emma’s other side and gets her arm over his shoulders, and then they bolt for the door, an awkward, hulking mass. Killian doesn’t look around, he doesn’t try to understand what’s happening—he’s too afraid of what he’ll see, and he needs to get Emma out, he needs to get her and the baby to safety.

Glass crunches beneath his boots. An arrow whizzes past his ear. Two steps from the exit he slips on something wet, but he ignores it.

At the door he pushes Emma through first. “Run,” he says. “Don’t look back, just run.”

They reach the trees and collapse, breathing hard from exertion. From his knees, Killian turns back to the house. Will’s not with them; he must have stayed behind. There’s smoke billowing from the conservatory, but Killian doesn’t see any actual fire, and there are several people trotting unhurriedly along the path towards the copse they’re squatting in.

_It’s over_.

It’s over, but Killian’s not foolish enough to believe that they’re safe.

He looks at Emma. “The Jolly Roger,” he says.

Emma, sprawled on her bottom in the snow, chest heaving, blinks at him. “What?”

“She’s ready to sail, love,” Killian explains. “Ian and Henry are aboard. We need to leave.”

Only when they’re out of Storybrooke will he be able to relax; only then will be allow himself to hold her and be reassured that she’s safe and whole.

“But—my parents.”

“They’re coming too, Swan. So is Will. Anyone who wanted to come is coming.”

“Why are we-“

“Because you, Ian, and the baby need to get as far away from the Black Fairy as possible. _Now_.”

Her brow creases, but she nods. “Okay. Ok, just let me catch my breath, and-”

The ground heaves suddenly beneath them. Killian’s thrown forward onto his hand and hook, and by the time he finds his balance again the quaking is over, though in the distance he still hears thunder.

David bursts into their midst, clothes singed and his face bloodied.

“What the fuck just happened?” Emma asks, eyes wide.

David skids to a halt, shaking his head. “We’re trapped,” he pants, then looks at Killian. “I’m sorry.”

Killian’s heart sinks like a stone in his chest.

“No,” he groans, and even though he knows what he’ll find, he scrambles to his feet and sprints towards the cliffs.

He stops a safe distance from the edge, wary of the poor footing, but it’s more than far enough—he can see the mouth of the harbor, and spanning its length is a towering palisade of jagged black rock; it marches up onto the land on either side of the harbor and disappears into the trees.

David’s right: they’re trapped.

Emma steps up next to him and slides her hand into his. She’s silent for a long moment, then she squeezes his fingers and sighs. “I guess we’re not leaving.”


	17. Chapter 17

“Emma?”

“Hm?”

“Are you going to get out of bed, love?”

Emma turns her face into her pillow and groans, “What’s the point?”

Killian chuckles and places a kiss on the back of her head. “Henry made pancakes,” he says.

She doesn’t move, though her stomach gurgles as if it heard the word ‘pancakes’. The mattress dips, Killian placing his hand and hook on either side of her and leaning closer; his nose nuzzles its way into the crook of her neck, his warm breath tickling the part of her jaw not covered by her pillow.

“There are M&M’s in the pancakes,” Killian wheedles.

“_Fine_,” she huffs, even though at this point her stomach’s throwing a full-blown riot, and denying it food would only result in whatever the internal organ equivalent of setting a few cars on fire is.

With more grumbling and a lot of glaring, Emma sits up and swings her legs off the bed; as soon as there’s enough space, Killian sits beside her, his arm slipping around her waist and his lips falling to her bare shoulder.

“How did you sleep?” he asks.

“Not bad.”

He places a kiss next to her tank top strap. “Did you dream?”

“Not after you woke me up the first time.”

On Tuesday, they severed Ian’s connection to the Black Fairy. It was a weird sight, a twisted rope of purple and black light growing out of Ian’s chest; it was several feet long, hung in midair, and the end was faded, extending—Emma assumed—into the Dark Realm. The Apprentice used the Black Fairy’s blood that he scraped off of Killian’s hook to create a potion that, when poured onto the black and purple rope, made it shrivel up and fall off.

(Not unlike an umbilical cord, which is an image Emma did _not_ need burned into her psyche forever.)

Afterwards, they asked if the Apprentice could bind Ian’s soul to his body again, but the Apprentice told them that it’s pointless now that Ian’s aware of his power—he would break through the binding within days, and every subsequent binding would be less and less effective.

All of this means that now Ian keeps ending up in _her _dreams—which, given the side-effects of the Sleeping Curse, Emma’s not really complaining about.

For three nights she’s fallen asleep and found herself in a room full of fire. Luckily, she’s only ever been there a minute or two before Ian appears. He was confused the first time, and it was only by complete accident (and because he burned himself) that he transported them out of there, to a frozen lake which they stood and shivered on until Killian woke them both up, one at a time.

Since then, Ian’s been able to control it—at least, it _seems _like he’s controlling it, even though they always end up on the same lake, freezing their asses off in the snow until Killian comes to their rescue.

It takes a few hours and a few hot chocolates and a lot of snuggling for Emma to be able to fall asleep again, and even then she sleeps fitfully.

So, she’s a little grumpy.

(The whole Black-Fairy-wanting-her-baby thing isn’t exactly helping her mood, either.)

“C’mon, love,” Killian urges quietly. “Let’s eat and then you and I can go for a walk.”

“Ugh,” Emma says, but she lets Killian pull her to her feet and lead her downstairs.

Henry is just putting the finishing touches on the breakfast he laid out for them when they walk into the kitchen. Ian’s already there, his fork inching across the table towards the plate of M&M pancakes in the center.

“Those are for mom,” Henry hisses, and slaps Ian’s fork away. “Eat the other ones.”

There’s a plate of plain pancakes beside the M&M pancakes, and plates full of bacon and scrambled eggs and hash browns. There’s butter and syrup and orange juice and…

And there’s coffee.

Emma really, _really _misses coffee. She misses it and she thinks it could quite possibly be the cure for everything that’s wrong right now, so she picks up the mug that was probably meant for Killian and inhales deeply before taking a long sip.

“Uh, are you supposed to be drinking that?” Henry asks.

Emma swallows, mutters, “I don’t care,” and takes another sip.

Henry makes a face. “Mom, I really don’t think you’re supposed to be drinking coffee.”

“Since when did you become a pre-” Emma clenches her jaw, clamping down on _pregnancy_, and bites out, “An _expert_?”

“Since Google.”

Killian reaches for the mug she’s holding. “Emma, love, how about some tea, instead?”

“I don’t want tea. I want this coffee. Get your own.” She’s half joking, but she also feels half hysterical.

Killian’s fingers end up curling gently around her forearm. “Aye, Swan, but tea is…tea is better for you.”

Defiantly, Emma drains the rest of the coffee while glowering at both Henry and Killian simultaneously.

_Tea can suck my ass._

“I’ll survive,” she declares, thunking the mug back down on the table. “One cup isn’t going to hurt.”

Neither Henry nor Kilian look convinced. Or happy.

“What are you guys talking about?” Ian asks. He has an M&M pancake rolled up like a taquito in his hand.

“Nothing,” Killian says hurriedly. “And put that pancake back. Henry said those ones are for your mother.”

Ian tightens his grip on his prize. “Why can’t mom have coffee?”

“_Because_,” Henry growls.

“Because why?”

Clearly exasperated, Henry snaps, “Because she’s on a special diet.”

“Oh.” Ian frowns at Emma’s stomach. “I don’t think it’s working.”

If he wasn’t her kid, Emma might have thrown her coffee cup at him.

He’s right though. She’s been devouring food nonstop for three whole days and her belly is now noticeably not normal belly size. The return of her appetite is probably the only good thing that’s come out of this Sleeping Curse bullshit, even if it’s probably more stress eating than anything.

Emma sighs inwardly and rounds the table to take the seat next to Ian.

Killian sits down opposite Emma and takes up his fork. “Your mother and I are going for a walk after breakfast,” he tells Ian. “I expect your morning work to be finished by the time we return.”

On Tuesday, Killian went to Ian’s school and spoke to the principal, explained what had happened, told her Ian would be staying home for the rest of the week and asked if he could make up his suspension and detentions after the break.

Ian thought he was getting his Christmas vacation four days early—until he woke up Wednesday morning and found Dad’s Homeschool waiting for him in the kitchen.

“I don’t wanna do school today,” Ian moans.

“Well, it’s not really a choice,” Killian replies, spearing himself a chunk of hash browns and transferring it to his plate.

“How come Henry doesn’t have to do school?”

Henry snorts. “Because my school is already on vacation.”

“Well how come you get so much vacation?”

“Because that’s how college works,” Emma says patiently. “When you’re in college you’ll get a month off for Christmas vacation too.”

“I want a month off _now_.”

“You get two weeks. That’s more than you got last year.”

“And if you continue whining,” Killian adds darkly, “you won’t get _any_ vacation.”

Ian scowls. “You can’t take away my vacation.”

“Can’t I?”

Eyes narrowed, Ian bites his rolled-up pancake savagely in half, somehow managing to get a smear of chocolate on his cheek—just below the scrape he got from fighting Nathaniel that hasn’t quite faded yet—and doesn’t speak for the remainder of breakfast.

When they finish eating, they clear the table and dump the dishes in the sink. Henry, who’s been decidedly responsible and downright _motherly_ since Tuesday, volunteers to wash everything so that Emma and Killian can take a walk. Emma gently pulls his forehead to her lips for a kiss, then goes to the front door to put on her coat and boots.

It’s frigid outside, and although it’s colder and snowier than it ever was in Boston, Emma remembers some truly arctic winters from her childhood in Minnesota, and therefor tries not to complain too much.

Not out loud, at least.

Inside her head, there’s a lot of swearing.

She loops her arm through Killian’s and they start down the sidewalk. Breakfast and the coffee (mostly the coffee) revived her, and she feels less grumpy and more appreciative of the crisp air, cold as it is, and the otherwise beautiful morning.

“Feel better, love?” Killian asks, breath fogging in the air.

“You mean aside from everything?”

“Aye, love, aside from everything.”

She sighs. “Yea. I feel better.”

“Do you want the damage report now, or later?”

Emma tightens her arm around Killian’s and snuggles closer, as much as is feasible given they’re trying to walk, and says, “May as well give it to me now.”

“The Nautilus is off the table; Nemo and Liam tried to generate a portal underwater, but they failed. It seems that the Black Fairy’s wall is blocking inter-realm travel, as well.”

“_Fuck_.”

Robin and the Merry Men searched for a way out of Storybrooke, and found exactly what Emma expected they would find: absolutely no way out.

What Emma _didn’t_ expect them to discover is that anyone who wandered too close to the black wall—within 15 feet of it—felt nauseous at once and would vomit if they didn’t get out of range, as if the wall was emitting some sort of radiation, and when Regina attempted to teleport to the other side, she experienced the same immediate sickness.

“Basically,” David told her, “_You’re_ not going anywhere near it.”

“_No one_ should be going anywhere near it,” Emma returned, and she pulled the princess card and ordered everyone to stop poking around the Black Fairy’s wall; they may as well just accept that they’re not getting out that way and focus their energy on finding other solutions.

Killian proposed the Nautilus, his brother’s ship, and while Emma didn’t want to get into a submarine unless she had to, she was all out of ideas.

And now, they’re all out of ideas again.

“It seems that we’re back to mermaids,” Killian laments.

“If the Nautilus can’t get through the wall, I doubt a mermaid will be able to.”

“I agree. But if there’s even the smallest possibility that we’re wrong…”

“Yea. I guess you’re right.”

The problem with mermaids is that, to contact them, they need Ian, and Emma’s not exactly thrilled about exploiting Ian’s powers again, or potentially putting him in danger.

(Plus, they don’t even know if mermaids are “magical” enough to see Ian while he’s astral projecting, like the Black Fairy can.)

Emma stops in her tracks and tugs Killian around, into a hug. She buries her nose in his jacket, and mumbles, “This sucks.”

“Aye, love, it does,” he murmurs, arms circling her waist. “But it will all be over soon.”

“When?” she wonders, not really expecting an answer—knowing there _isn’t_ one.

“When we defeat the Black Fairy.”

Except that they still have no idea how they’re going to do that.

Supposedly the Apprentice thinks the answer is somewhere in Merlin’s mansion, but he’s been scouring the place for days and hasn’t found what he’s looking for yet—if he even _knows_ what he’s looking for.

Emma thinks it’s more likely that the answer is in the prophecies; everyone who’s actually familiar with the prophecies (aka, all the other fairies) disagrees.

Or, maybe they do agree but for some unfathomable reason are continuing to withhold the prophecies from her.

Which is terrifying, because there must be something _really_ bad in them, otherwise why keep them secret?

She’s extremely close to breaking into their rectory and just taking a look herself.

With a deep breath, Emma steps away from Killian and they resume walking. It’s not merely for Emma’s sake that they’re doing this, it’s for Killian’s as well; he’s doing a tremendous job of hiding his fears, of being the optimistic, reasonable one, but she knows he’s as anxious and terrified as she is.

(She has the broken furniture to prove it.)

Back at the house they settle into a routine, Killian joining Ian at the table to help him with his schoolwork, and Emma sitting in the living room with a file box full of overdue paperwork that David dropped off to keep her busy (busy, and out of the station).

Henry leaves to spend an hour with Ava before his shift at the library, and the house is quiet until, around noon, Will stumbles out of the back room he slept in and into the kitchen, signaling an hourlong lunch break for Ian.

“G’morning,” Will greets, as Ian bolts wordlessly past him into the basement.

“Hey,” Emma calls back, because Killian’s currently staring with a furrowed brow at Ian’s math workbook. “Help yourself to some breakfast. There’s leftovers in the fridge.”

“Mm,” Will hums appreciatively.

He’s been their houseguest since Tuesday, invited to stay by Killian who wanted an extra pair of hands he trusted on site in case the Black Fairy returned.

Emma thought she would hate it, but it’s…it’s nice. The house is big, and Will’s unobtrusive; he keeps to himself, proving to be as voracious of a reader as Killian, and he keeps Ian occupied when Emma and Killian need ten minutes of alone time.

(He’s also teaching Henry how to fight with a knife, although neither of them know that she’s aware of their midnight sessions in the basement.)

While Will roots around in the refrigerator for something to eat, Emma packs up the paperwork.

She’s hungry again, but she’s also tired, and after a brief but intense internal debate, she decides that she’d prefer to sleep first and eat later.

“I’m gonna go take a nap,” she announces. 

Will salutes her with a grin. Killian doesn’t respond, but by the time Emma’s sliding underneath the covers, he’s there, crawling into bed beside her and pulling her body snugly to his, her back fitted to his chest and her rear end nestled against his hips. They exhale simultaneously.

“Here to keep me company?” Emma murmurs.

He places a kiss behind her ear. “I’ll stay until you’re asleep.”

“Thank you.”

“For what, love?”

_For being my rock; for letting me lean on you; for pretending you’re not scared shitless so that_ _I can be as scared shitless as I need to be right now._

“For everything.”

He kisses her again, on the cheek this time, then his hand slips into her t-shirt, and Emma can’t help the small sigh of pleasure that escapes her lips when Killian’s fingers brush her belly, his skin warm against hers. Even his callouses are comforting, because they’re so familiar to her now.

Killian keeps his hand in place for several long minutes, while Emma focuses on breathing.

Falling asleep hasn’t been fun since she awoke from the Sleeping Curse, because in order to fall asleep Emma has to clear her mind, and once she clears her mind there’s nothing to distract her from her memories.

Now, they rise to the surface.

_“You have no idea what it is you’re carrying inside of you.”_

The Black Fairy spoke to her while she was Cursed, her voice finding Emma whenever Emma was in the dark room full of mirrors.

“_The boy,” _the Black Fairy whispered gleefully,_ “the boy is a storm—wind and water and lightning—but this one…this one is fire_.”

Killian must sense her thoughts, because he begins stroking her belly, fingers and thumb rubbing soothing circles over her bump, until her racing brain slows down, and sleep overtakes her.

* * *

Killian leaves Emma when he’s certain she’s asleep.

He checks the time before closing their bedroom door and returning downstairs; he researched sleep cycles and knows that she’ll enter REM sleep in approximately 90 minutes, so before then he’ll have Ian wake her up, before she can start to dream, before her soul can travel to that room full of fire.

Suddenly, Killian feels as if he can’t breathe; he’s unraveling rapidly, the composure he clings to when he’s around Emma crumbling, and the fury that’s been simmering in his gut since Tuesday rising to a boil.

Will looks up when Killian reaches the bottom of the stairs, and without speaking he stands and follows Killian outside.

They go to the back of the house, to a churned up patch of snow, Killian tosses his hook and brace to the side, and they spar.

Will’s the ideal partner; David’s strong but he’s slow, and Killian’s angry and out of control enough to do damage. Will, however, is faster than Killian; he dodges Killian’s fists with ease, and he hits hard enough for Killian to feel it. Killian manages to land only a single punch before the fire inside of him finally burns low enough for him to feel in control again.

Panting, he signals to Will that he’s finished and doubles over, hand and blunted wrist propped on his knees.

“You know,” Will says, “You don’t have to take it easy on me all the time. I can handle it.”

Killian huffs out a laugh, straightens, and presses his knuckles to his jaw, where Will got him with a clean, open-handed strike.

“I’m _not_ taking it easy on you,” he admits. “You’re faster than I am.”

“Youth,” Will provides cheekily.

(He’s not even remotely out of breath, the bastard.)

Killian retrieves his hook, and, together, he and Will trudge back to the front porch.

“Any news?” Will asks quietly.

“Nothing good.”

“Don’t give up hope, mate.”

Killian shakes his head, unable to respond, unable to admit that he’s _not_ hopeful—not of finding a way out of Storybrooke, at least.

No, Killian suspects that, in the end, they’ll have to stand and fight. The Black Fairy let them escape. Let them _live_. But she’s coming back for the baby, Killian can only assume when it’s viable.

It’s terrifying, but…he’s ready. He’ll to do whatever it takes to stop her.

(He’s hoping dearly that ‘whatever it takes’ requires she suffer an excruciatingly painful death.)

“You coming to work tonight?”

Killian fixes a smile on his face. “Aye.”

“Thank God. Those ladies from the Three Bears scare the piss outta me.”

“Can’t handle a little flirting, Scarlet?”

“I wouldn’t call what they do ‘flirting’.

Killian chuckles. Will has more than his fair share of admirers at The Crow’s Nest, most of them attractive, many of them quite persistent, but the women that work at Three Bears Day Spa are especially relentless.

“I don’t know their exact history,” Will continues as they climb the porch, “but I’m quite certain they were all _actually _bears, once upon a time.”

Inside the house they’re met with the sight of Ian, standing on the countertop in the kitchen, rummaging in one of the cabinets.

“I’m hungry,” he explains.

Killian sheds his shoes and jacket. “Get down and I’ll make you some lunch.”

“There’s mac and cheese up here.”

“You’re not having mac and cheese.”

“Why not?”

“Because your grandparents are bringing Granny’s over for dinner tonight, and you already had pancakes for breakfast.”

“So?”

Killian crosses into the kitchen and goes the counter Ian’s perched on. “So-” He wraps his arm around Ian’s knees, braces the boy against his shoulder, and hoists him off the counter. “You need to eat something healthy for lunch.”

“That’s dumb.”

Killian loosens his arm so that Ian slides lower in his arms, until their faces are on the same level. Ian scowls at him, eyes stormy beneath knitted golden brows.

“It’s not dumb,” Killian admonishes softly. “It’s actually very smart. You want your body to grow and be strong, don’t you?”

Ian doesn’t respond, but his scowl lessens.

For days, Ian’s been nearly as grumpy as Emma’s been. Killian knows it’s not merely because he dislikes homeschool—he’s grumpy because he’s frightened. His mother was put under a Sleeping Curse and kidnapped, he learned that sometimes his soul travels outside of his body when he sleeps, he nearly had his heart ripped out by the Black Fairy, and now he sees the big picture, now he understands the exact danger they’re all in.

That’s a lot for a child. And, on top of it all, Killian thinks Ian’s probably aware that there’s something they’re not telling him, some piece of vital information that they’re withholding.

Truth be told, if Killian were in Ian’s place, he’d be grumpy too.

He wishes he could be grumpy _now_, only Emma, Henry, and Ian are all relying on him to hold himself together.

Will’s the only one that sees how tenuous his composure is, but that’s the way it has to be.

“How about,” Killian proposes, “We end school early and finish your dinosaur puzzle instead?”

Ian brightens immediately. “Okay!”

“You have to eat a healthy lunch first though.”

Ian groans dramatically, but he eats the entire plate of sliced fruit that Killian procures for him while he, Killian, and Will sit on their knees around the coffee table in the front room, where the dinosaur puzzle was relocated to when the kitchen table became the temporary homeschool table. He even steals some of Killian’s carrots, which Killian pretends to be annoyed about so that Ian will steal _more_ vegetables from his plate.

At 2, he sends Ian upstairs to wake Emma, and at 2:15, when neither Ian nor Emma have appeared. Killian goes upstairs to check on them; he finds them both curled up in bed together, fast asleep.

After a moment of hesitation, Killian tells himself a nap before work will do him some good, and joins them.

* * *

When Emma finds herself in the room full of fire, Ian appears at her side almost instantly, and a heartbeat later the blistering heat gives way to searing cold, and the flickering red and black dissolves into a blinding white streaked with gray.

It’s the frozen lake, of course, but it’s not snowing this time, and Emma can actually see far enough to confirm that the lake is definitely not in Storybrooke—it’s not very large, either; at least, not as large as it felt previously.

Hugging herself, Emma rotates slowly, eyes roving the low, tree-covered hills that surround the lake.

The trees are crusted with snow and hung with icicles, and there’s one giant weeping willow right near the waterline that’s leaning over so heavily that its branches are submerged, locked in the ice.

Emma looks down, at her bare feet and the ice underneath. The water below looks almost black.

“Hey, Ian,” she says.

“Y-yea?” he asks, teeth chattering.

“Do you know where we are?”

“No.”

“Do you know why we always come here?”

He shakes his head and hugs himself tighter. “We j-just d-do.”

Emma opens her arms and Ian tucks himself against her side. She looks around again, wondering what it is about this place that’s so special, what it is that’s drawing Ian here the same way the Black Fairy drew him first to her urn and then to the Dark Realm.

Suddenly, something flashes, like the sun reflecting off of the ice near the center of the lake—only, there is no sun, the sky overhead is gray and clouded over.

Emma squints, focusing on the ice. She thinks she sees something, a light, something glowing beneath the surface, but then she blinks, and it’s gone. The wind picks up suddenly, carrying with it a swirl of snowflakes.

Shivering, Emma tightens her arms around Ian, and they wait for someone to wake them up.

It’s the doorbell that startles her awake—or, rather, it’s Killian jolting in reaction to the doorbell that wakes her.

She stares, surprised and confused to find him in bed with her, the other half of an Ian sandwich.

“The door-” she starts.

“I’ve got it!” Will bellows from the first floor.

Grinning, Killian lowers his head back onto the pillow. “It’s probably your parents.”

Emma wiggles, burrowing deeper into the blankets. “Good. I’m starving.”

“Me too,” Ian mumbles, rolling over and pressing his cold face into her neck.

Killian scoots closer. “You’re cold.”

He drapes his arm over them, and within seconds Emma feels warmer—except for her feet, which are basically popsicles. Below, Emma can hear Will and her parents talking.

“Think my mom and dad do room service?” she asks.

“Do you _want_ them to do room service?” Killian counters.

They’d probably just worry about her more, so no. Something—Emma can’t imagine _what_—struck them about the entire situation, about the Black Fairy wanting the baby, and they’ve been extra overprotective since Tuesday.

With a groan and a severe sense of déjà vu, Emma gets out of bed.

“C’mon,” she says, shaking Ian by the shoulder, “I bet we can convince grandma to bake some cookies for after dinner.”

Ian leaps from the bed as it catapulted, and races from the room.

“_Swan_,” Killian scolds lightly.

Emma shrugs. “Christmas vacation officially starts today, so that means for 2 whole weeks starting now we can all eat whatever we want.”

“Oh?” he teases, striding around the bed and pulling her body to his.

“Yep. Those are the official Christmas rules.” With their hips flush and their stomachs pressed together, her change in diameter is especially apparent. “Plus,” she adds, “I’m pregnant and I’m supposed to be able to eat anything I want anyway, so this is, like, the jackpot for me.”

Smiling, Killian lowers his forehead to hers and closes his eyes. “I want nothing more than for you to be happy, Emma.”

“I know,” she whispers, aware that they’re no longer talking about cookies. She slides one hand up his chest and around the back of his neck, threading her fingers through the short hairs at his nape. “We’re gonna be okay.”

They haven’t spoken about Tuesday, about the implications of what happened, about this big…_thing_ that surrounds them, that they’re breathing in constantly, that’s choking them.

They don’t need to.

The True Love’s kiss they shared was affirmation.

Affirmation that they’re strong enough to get through this, strong enough to protect their children. Underneath all the layers of fear and uncertainty and pure anger, Emma feels that, and she knows Killian feels it too.

Killian opens his eyes. “Aye, love,” he agrees. “We’ll be okay.”


	18. Chapter 18

It’s Christmas Eve and they’re at the loft; Snow wanted them to have an hour together to open gifts before the rest of the guests arrive, so they’re all sitting in the living surrounded by an absurd number of wrapped boxes.

“NO WAY!” Ian screeches, as he rips the paper off the large box in Henry’s lap and reveals a Nintendo Switch.

Henry grins broadly—he already suspected they were getting a Switch for Christmas, but Emma doesn’t think he knew that it was coming from David and Snow. “Oh, man,” he says, in amazement. “This is _awesome_.”

“Wait!” Ian gasps, head snapping up. “I already asked Santa for one.”

“Well-” Henry starts.

“Maybe we’ll get _two_!” Ian declares. “Then we could have one at home and you could take the other to college with you!”

Killian lifts his glass of egg nog to his lips to hide a smirk.

(Emma’s just genuinely surprised that Ian’s first suggestion wasn’t to put the extra one in his room.)

“Uh, I think Santa probably already knows that grandma and grandpa got us one,” Henry says. “He knows everything, right?”

Ian frowns. “Oh, yea.”

“_But_,” Emma interjects brightly, “that _also_ means that Santa knows you guys will need some games for it, so maybe you’ll get a few tomorrow.”

Ian’s gloomy expression evaporates, and his eyes widen excitedly. “Pokémon Sword and Shield,” he whispers reverently.

“You know those are two different games, right?” Henry asks. “It’s Pokémon Sword and Pokémon Shield, not Pokémon Sword and Shield. It’s _two_ games.”

“I know,” Ian spits defensively.

He didn’t, actually, but luckily for him he has Henry for a big brother—Henry who, despite how brutally he may tease Ian, loves him and is willing to spend several hours researching Pokémon games so Emma could buy the right one.

“Mmhm, maybe” Emma hums, like she doesn’t already have Pokémon Sword wrapped up and hidden in her closet.

Killian clears his throat. “I think you two are forgetting something.”

Both Ian and Henry throw him identical, quizzical looks.

“Shouldn’t you thank your grandparents for the wonderful gift they just gave you?”

“Thank you!” Ian and Henry chime simultaneously. Ian jumps to his feet and throws himself into David’s lap; Henry rises with more dignity and hugs his grandma.

“We’re glad you guys like it,” Snow says, giving Henry an extra squeeze. “Hopefully Santa will bring you those games tomorrow so you can actually play it.”

“And then you’re going to have to show _me_ how to play it,” David proposes.

“Really?” Ian asks.

David shrugs. “Yea, why not.”

Henry and Ian swap; Henry hugs David, and Ian submits to a flurry of kisses from Snow. After she releases him, she shoos him and Henry back towards the center of the rug. “Open the rest of your gifts!” she urges.

The boys, naturally, don’t need to be told twice.

Emma smiles and slides her hand from her lap to Killian’s knee and curls her fingers around his hook. Her parents came to her with their gift ideas, and although Emma drew the line at ponies and carnivals, she otherwise told them to do whatever they wanted—as long as they understood that whatever precedent they set this year will have to be met next year or there could be disappointment.

David and Snow settled on buying the boys one large gift that they could share—the Nintendo Switch—and then some smaller, individual gifts.

Well, they _said_ the other gifts would be small, but there’s nothing small about the full-size hockey net for Ian, or the mini-fridge for Henry.

“_Holy shit_,” Henry breathes, when he opens it. He looks immediately to Emma. “Can I put this in my room?”

“You mean your dorm room?”

“No, my_ room _room. At home.”

“As long as I don’t find any beer in there, sure.”

“Mom, do yours next!” Ian insists. He’s wearing the Ninja Turtle bike helmet he just unwrapped that looks like Raphael’s head.

“Alright,” Emma sighs. Irrationally, her stomach flutters nervously. She’s not fond of opening gifts in public.

It’s…overwhelming.

Ian scoots across the rug on his knees, snatches up one of the boxes with her name on it, and plops it into her lap, then he sits back on his heels and waits, beaming.

Cheeks hot, Emma carefully loosens the tape on one side of the box, and then peels back a wide strip of the penguin-patterned paper.

It’s a Super Nintendo, the new, miniature version with pre-loaded games.

Before Snow even starts explaining, Emma gets it.

“Henry said you got him one once, because you played it growing up. He said you guys used to play it all the time, before it broke.”

“Yea, we did,” Emma says, tears pricking her eyes.

It was the Christmas right after they moved to Boston. She happened to see a used one in a pawn shop window and bought it, along with a handful of games. It lasted for a solid two years before it finally crapped out. Emma always intended to try and get it fixed but she never got around to it, and eventually she threw it out.

“We know you have a lot of memories from your childhood that aren’t great,” David says softly. “We can’t change those, but we wanted to help you sort of…maybe make some new ones that make the old ones less bad.”

Emma nods and hastily wipes at her eyes. “You don’t have an old Zenith, do you?” she asks, remembering the tiny 13”TV/VCR combo they used to play Donkey Kong on at the first group home she was ever in that had a Super Nintendo.

David chuckles. “I don’t know if it’s a Zenith, but we do have a box TV floating around here somewhere.”

Emma moves to put the Nintendo down—needing to move on, needing to let her emotions settle before they drown her—and notices the face Ian’s making.

“What do you think, kid?”

“It’s so old,” he replies, nose crinkling.

“It is,” Emma agrees. “This is what I was playing when I was a kid.”

“Does it have good games?”

“It has the_ best_ games.”

“Can we play it now?”

“Eh, I don’t know…” Her parents’ guests will be over soon, and the whole point of them coming early to open gifts is to not rub their gifts in other people’s faces.

“I can set it up,” David offers—_eagerly_, Emma notices. “The kids can play with it during the party.”

“I’ll do it,” Henry says, standing. “I know where the TV is.”

David raises a brow. “What, you think I’m too old to know how to set up a Nintendo?” His tone is stern, but there’s a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Henry smirks. “Yes,” he teases, then he scoops up the Super Nintendo and heads for the stairs.

Ian remains behind, and hands Emma the rest of her gifts one at a time; she opens a waffle maker, a pair of oven mitts that look like bear paws, a new pair of slippers, a bunch of small ceramic herb pots, each with a different seed packet inside, a knit beanie with a giant fake fur pompom on top, and a set of swan-shaped salt and pepper shakers.

(“Look, it’s you and dad,” Ian announces, pointing to the picture of the white and black swan on the package.)

The last thing Emma opens is a long flat envelop containing a decal sticker that reads: _My other car is a pirate ship._

“Is this for me or for Killian?” she asks, over Ian’s murmuring as he tries to read the decal upside down.

Snow gasps, one hand jumping up to cover her mouth. “Oh, shoot! That was supposed to be for Killian. I’m so sorry!”

Emma smiles and passes the decal to Killian. He takes it, his cheeks crimson, and mumbles, “Thank you.”

“Dad, this one’s your too!” Ian exclaims, tapping a gift that’s the size of two pizza boxes taped end-to-end.

Killian tugs at his ruby-studded earlobe. “Oh, I…I thought that one was for you.”

“No, it says _Killian_.” Ian shows him the tag with Killian’s name written on it. “Mine say _Ian_.”

“Killian,” Snow chides, “did you really think we didn’t get you anything?”

“I, er, no, I didn’t, uh, think that,” Killian stutters.

(Emma’s seriously worried about his ear’s ability to stay attached to his head, at this point.)

“You don’t have to be embarrassed,” Snow assures him lightly. “You’re part of the family now, so David and I get to spoil you as much as we spoil Emma.”

“Not that Emma, you know, actually _lets_ us spoil her,” David adds.

Emma rolls her eyes. David grins. Killian abandons his attempt to remove his ear and drops his hand to his knee.

“I…thank you, mate,” he says. Looking first at David, and then to Snow. “Thank you both.” There’s something in the steadiness of his voice that reveals a depth to his gratitude not explicit in his words alone.

The air feels heavy and full, for a moment.

Then Snow laughs. “Don’t thank us until you open it,” she jokes. “You might not even like it.”

Killian ducks his head, cheeks still stained red. “I’m sure I will,” he says quietly.

Ian slides the big gift across the carpet until it bumps Killian’s toes, and Killian reaches out delicately for it. Emma knows what it is, and she holds her breath while Killian opens it, waiting for him to strip enough of the paper off to understand what it is…

He exhales wordlessly, staring at the wooden tavern sign that David and Snow commissioned from Geppetto. The name of the bar is carved out in bold but elegant letters beside an actual crow’s nest, complete with a pirate holding a spyglass that Emma’s told was done by Pinocchio, who’s a strapping 17-year-old now.

“I like the crow,” Ian comments—which is how Emma, who’s seen the sign before on multiple occasions, realizes there’s a crow circling the mast.

“Do you like it?” Snow prompts.

“It’s…I…” Killian runs his fingers along the gold-painted letters, shaking his head in wonderment. “This is amazing.”

“We thought the bar needed one,” David says. “I hope you don’t think it’s too forward—if you don’t like the design or the colors or something we can have Geppetto change it or we can get you a new-”

“It’s perfect,” Killian states. “It’s absolutely perfect. Thank you.”

David and Snow smile; Killian blushes _again_.

“Open the rest!” Ian gushes, shoving another gift at him.

It’s a package of socks with funky patterns. Ian chortles. Emma nudges Killian and hands him a third gift, which turns out to be a novelty baseball hat that says ‘Captain’ on it; next Killian opens a silver hip flask that’s wrapped in leather and engraved with a ship’s wheel, and then a homebrew kit.

“David picked _that_ one out,” Snow says.

David shrugs, grinning. “I thought it would be cool if you could make your own beer and sell it at the bar one day.”

Killian grins back, a measure more at ease with the whole gift-opening business. “Aye, mate. That would be fantastic.”

Emma rises from her seat and kicks her way through all the wrapping paper strewn on the carpet to give her parents a hug. Killian’s behind her, and when Emma leaves her dad’s arms for her mom’s, she hears Killian grunt as—presumably—he’s swept into an embrace.

“Merry Christmas, Emma,” Snow murmurs.

(Emma can barely hear her over the sound of David repeatedly clapping Killian on the back.)

“Merry Christmas, mom,” Emma says. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” She squeezes Emma tighter. “I know we probably went a little overboard on gifts, but this is our first time actually spending Christmas together as a family and we wanted to make it special.”

“You did, mom. You did.”

As overwhelmed as she feels, she understands their desire to make Christmas perfect—she’s always tried to make Christmas and the boys’ birthdays as special as possible, with as many treats and gifts as she can afford.

(Which was never usually a whole lot, but she knew the boys got it, knew they appreciated what they were given.)

And, if Emma admits it, the gifts and the lengths her parents went to in order to find things that were very _her_ make her feel…loved.

She wishes she and her parents could have had more Christmases together, that the three of them could have felt the same joy that Emma feels with the boys on Christmas mornings. But this is it. This is the hand they were dealt and they’re doing their best to be grateful for it and make the most of it.

And—_fuck it_—it’s enough. Because it doesn’t matter how much they missed; what matters is that they’re together _now_.

“Grandma, grandpa!” Ian calls.

They all turn. Ian’s hauling a giant tote bag stuffed with gifts across the wooden floor.

“You have to open _your_ presents now!”

“Ooh!” Henry shouts from the top of the loft. “Wait for me!”

David and Snow look at each other in surprise, eyebrows raised, lips parted.

“Mom, dad,” Emma chides. “You didn’t really think we didn’t get _you_ anything, did you?”

Blushing, they graciously allow Emma to push them back into their seats, and Ian and Henry to place gifts in their hands.

\---

The guests begin filtering in at 6, and Snow serves dinner promptly at 7.

After that, Emma only sees Ian when she has to shoo him away from the dessert table; he, Rowan, and Roland spend the rest of the evening upstairs, playing Super Nintendo and battling with the Nerf bows that Emma might actually kill Will for buying.

(Judging by the sounds drifting down from the top of the loft, furniture is being rearranged, Emma guesses to form obstacles and barricades for some sort of war zone.)

An adult occasionally disappears to play with the kids—they always return flushed and sweaty, and Little John even had two foam-tipped arrows tangled in his shaggy hair.

With Ian occupied, Emma gets to play hostess and pretend it’s not because she’s horrible at socializing—she’s happier hovering in the kitchen making sure everyone has drinks and knows where the snacks are than she is mingling and making small talk; Killian’s by her side, making sure _she_ has a drink.

Will loiters at the island with them, until Ian challenges him to single combat by way of dropping a Nerf dart on top of his head.

Robin, chuckling, takes Will’s place at the counter.

“Those bows were a bad idea,” he says.

Emma snorts. “I’m pretty sure Will was aware of that when he bought them.”

“And when he decided to bring them _here_,” Killian growls, eyes tracking an arrow that soars over the railing upstairs and lands squarely in a bowl of Chex mix on the kitchen table.

“Well, I appreciate the very _sensible_ gift you bought Roland.”

“Likewise,” Killian replies.

Books.

Ian and Roland both ended up picking out a book for each other, _Dog Man_ for Roland, and a pirate-themed _I Spy_ for Ian.

Robin hangs around until David calls for him to help finish a story involving a joke whose punchline he can’t remember; Robin departs with a wink, well aware that they’re both avoiding the crowd.

Sarah and the Apprentice wander over, filling the space Robin left behind.

“How are you feeling?” the Apprentice asks. He’s wearing a Santa hat and possibly the ugliest ugly sweater Emma’s ever seen.

“I’m fine,” she replies, not unkindly—_fine_ is just as good as it gets when you’re pregnant.

“Have you recovered?”

“Yea,” she says, not sure whether he means emotionally from the Sleeping Curse or physically from a weekend spent beefing up Storybrooke’s magical protection—neither is a conversation she wants to have right now. “Have you found anything in Merlin’s mansion yet?”

This is also not really an appropriate discussion for her parents’ Christmas party, but she can’t help asking; she hasn’t seen him for nearly a week.

The Apprentice inhales deeply and then exhales slowly through his nose while nodding. “I believe I’ve found the solution to our problem.”

Emma stops breathing. Killian tenses. “You have?”

“Yes.”

Sarah, always there to soften the Apprentice’s blunt edges, loops her arm gently through his. “We wanted to wait until after Christmas to tell you,” she explains. “Bedwyr thinks he found what we need but we don’t know how to get to it yet.”

“It will take some more research to have all of the answers,” the Apprentice adds, apologetically. “I was hoping to present to you my solution when I had all of those answers.”

Emma almost asks him to tell her anyway, her calm fading and panic beginning to make her throat tighten, but Killian slides his arm around her waist, reminding her he’s there, reminding her not to absolutely lose it.

“Is there anything we can do to help?” he says.

“Unfortunately, no; my master used a code when writing in his journals, and it would take longer for me to teach you to read the code than it would take to read through his entire collection on my own.”

Killian nods. “Thank you, then. We appreciate what you’re doing to help us.”

“It’s not only to help _you_; this fight is bigger than just Emma and the Black Fairy. The outcome of the Final Battle will affect everyone, in this realm and elsewhere.”

A tiny shiver crawls up Emma’s spine; Killian pulls her closer.

Sarah pats the crook of the Apprentice’s elbow with her free hand. “That’s enough of that,” she says. “Let’s talk about more important things. What is Ian expecting from Santa Claus?”

Emma smiles, her tension easing as they chat. They’re discussing what dessert Sarah should bring to Emma and Killian’s house tomorrow when Emma has to cross the kitchen to shuffle Ian away from the pies before he can finish removing the crust from the remains of Ava’s pecan masterpiece; she returns to find that Sarah and the Apprentice have moved on, replaced by Alec, his wife Olivia, and their 6-month-old daughter Valerie.

“I can take her,” Emma offers, when she sees Olivia struggling with the baby on her hip and one arm buried in the refrigerator.

“Oh my God, thank you.” Olivia gratefully deposits baby Valerie in Emma’s arms and resumes rooting around in the fridge.

Valerie, dressed in one of those poofy, velvet and tulle numbers that only small children can pull off, a headband with a giant velvet bow perched on her bald head, takes one look at Emma and starts bawling.

Emma almost takes it personally—until she sees the ghostly white edge of a tooth poking through her bottom gum. And then she laughs.

“She teething?” Emma directs at Alec.

“Yea,” Alec responds sheepishly. “I’m sorry. I can take her if you want.”

He reaches for Valerie but Emma shakes her head.

“No, it’s okay. I’ve been through this, don’t worry.”

While Emma tries to soothe the baby, Killian, observant as ever, holds up a bottle of rum. “How about a drink?”

Alec opens his mouth, but it’s Olivia’s voice that says, desperately, “Yes, please.”

Grinning, Killian prepares their drinks and tops off Emma’s glass of nonalcoholic wine. Olivia puts a gel teething ring in Val’s hand and guides it to her mouth, then produces a washcloth from thin air and tucks it into the neck of the baby’s dress.

“Drool,” she sighs.

“Drool,” Emma agrees. She doesn’t miss those days, the days of having to change Ian’s outfit every hour because he soaked it with his drool.

Valerie quiets as she gnaws on her teething ring, eliciting happy, babbling little grunts as she does, and when Emma’s certain that there’s no danger of her bursting into tears again any time soon, she turns to Killian.

“Want to hold her?”

Killian’s eyes light up with fierce desire, but what he says is, “No, that’s alright. I shouldn’t,” and brandishes his hook.

“Nonsense,” Alec exclaims. “C’mon, you won’t hurt her.”

“Go ahead,” Olivia urges.

“It’s good practice.”

Killian makes a sound of half-hearted disagreement, but he lets Emma tug the glass of rum from his fingers and position his arms.

Emma lays the baby against Killian’s chest so that Valerie’s diapered bottom is resting on his forearm, the tip of his hook turned safely away; they peer at each other for a long moment, Killian solemnly, and Valerie over her teething ring, then Killian begins swaying at the hips, from left to right.

“Hello, beautiful,” he murmurs, lifting his hand to tickle her chin with one finger.

Valerie smiles, and then Killian does too, relieved but also ecstatic.

Olivia turns to Emma. “So, how far along are you now?”

Emma touches her stomach. “11 weeks.”

“Twins?”

“Nope, just the one.”

Her appetite kicked into overdrive, apparently to compensate for weeks of debilitating nausea, and now she’s pretty sure she’s gained all the weight that she’s supposed to have gained.

(And more.)

Olivia’s eyes widen. “Emma, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean-”

“It’s okay,” Emma says. “This is my third one. I showed earlier with Ian than I did with Henry, so I guess I’m just showing even earlier this time around.”

She shrugs. It is what it is. Over the weekend, while she was doing some last minute Christmas shopping, she finally broke down and bought maternity leggings and a bigger bra, because her jeans don’t button and her usual leggings kept slipping down the curve of her belly, and all her old bras were strangling her boobs.

It’s annoying, but she figures she should just be thankful that she’s seemingly ditched morning sickness for good.

(Fucking _finally_.)

“Do you know if you’re having a boy or a girl yet?” Alec asks.

“No, not yet.”

Oliva arches an eyebrow. “Do you know what you _want _to have?”

Emma and Killian exchange glances and small smiles. Olivia laughs—but her laugh is cut short by a demanding voice.

“What’s so amusing?”

It’s Regina, standing there with an empty glass. She’s looking Killian up and down, as though she suspects _he’s_ what’s funny.

Emma feels her smile slip. “Oh, um-”

“EMMA!” her mom cries slurrily, sliding into the kitchen supported by Sarah. “We were _just_ talking about you!”

“Oh?” she says, trying not to smile; her mom’s cheeks are pink and she’s clearly tipsy.

“We were just discussing,” Sarah starts, in a much more sober tone, “how you need to have a baby shower.”

“Oh my God, yes!” Olivia hisses.

Emma widens her eyes at Killian (_What the fuck have you been putting in my mom’s drinks?_) before addressing Snow. “I don’t know,” she reasons. “I think that’s getting a little ahead of ourselves.”

Snow squeezes her eyes shut. “That’s _exactly_ the point.” She slaps her hand hard on the countertop. The snowman earrings that Ian bought her from Santa’s workshop (that she taped to her ears because they aren’t actually pierced) wobble dangerously. “We have to look to the _future_, Emma.”

Emma grimaces. “I wish I could—I wish I could literally _see_ the future and know that everything is going to be okay.”

The only reason she’s been able to move on from Tuesday is because she _has_ to—she still has Ian and Henry to take care of, she still has this baby inside of her that needs her to keep it together, she still has the Final Battle to fight—to fucking _win_.

Christmas is a distraction she’s indulging in because it’s too big to ignore and she refuses to let it be ruined for Henry and Ian.

But a baby shower? She doesn’t think she can do it. Emotionally, she’s not in the right place.

Regina shifts, strangely, and Emma looks at her. Her brow is furrowed, as if in contemplation, but before Emma can wonder at it, she’s engulfed.

“Oh, _Emma_.” Her mom soothes, her arms tight around Emma’s shoulders—then she gasps. “Look at Killian and the _baby_!”

Alec bursts into laughter but quickly turns it into a cough. Killian chuckles. “Can you take her?” he asks Alec. “I think someone needs a glass of water…”

“Dad!” Emma calls. David whirls towards her voice. “Come get your wife.”

\---

The party wraps up around midnight. Rowan fell asleep on Snow and David’s bed with Gideon at 11; Ian and Roland are somehow still awake, but Ian passes out on the car ride home.

Killian hauls him out of the backseat and carries him into the house and upstairs, warning Henry and Will over his shoulder not to let Emma try and carry the mini-fridge inside.

“We won’t,” Henry promises.

It takes two trips, but Emma, Henry, and Will manage to transfer all the gifts from the car to the front room.

Henry gives his mini-fridge a tender pat, then yawns, “Alright, I’m going to bed.”

“You don’t want to help us with the presents from Santa?” Emma asks.

“No, thanks. I don’t want to ruin the magic.”

She snorts. Since Ian believes in Santa, Henry still gets “Santa” gifts in addition to his presents from Emma; with the baby coming, he’ll probably be able to ride that Santa wave for at least another 10 years.

Emma follows Henry to the foot of the stairs. “Did you have a nice time tonight?”

He smiles, tiredly. “Yea, it was really nice.”

Ava was there, with her brother and her dad and her dad’s girlfriend, plus a few other kids Henry’s age that all hang out together with him and Ava, one of which Emma thinks is the teenage daughter of one of the Merry Men.

“Alright, Merry Christmas, kid,” she says.

“Merry Christmas, mom.” He leans down to kiss her cheek, then vanishes up the stairs.

Emma turns to Will. “Do _you_ want to help me with the gifts from Santa?”

“Um, sure,” Will answers. “Am I…” He glances upwards. “Am I _allowed_?”

Emma doesn’t even bother to grace such a stupid question with a response, she just goes upstairs. Will trails her to the bedroom, but he keeps his eyes averted, as if afraid of what he might see.

“Jesus Christ, Will,” she growls. “We don’t run a sex dungeon up here. You can look.” She shares the house with two boys who do _not_ need to see evidence of her and Killian’s love life, so they keep their room tidy and things like lube, condoms, and risqué underwear securely tucked away.

Will drops his gaze from the ceiling—but only to study the wallpaper. Killian joins them, takes one look at Will, and snickers. “You’re not gonna see anything we wouldn’t want you to see, mate.”

“All the same,” Will mumbles.

Emma and Killian share amused grins, then, together, they pull the gifts from their hiding spot in her closet and carry them downstairs. They arrange everything neatly around the tree, then Will retires to the den, and Emma and Killian collapse side-by-side on the couch.

“I’m exhausted,” Killian groans, dropping his arm around Emma’s shoulders.

“I bet.”

He worked all weekend and then again on Monday—several business reserved tables at The Crow’s Nest for their company parties, and the bar was at capacity for four days in a row. Emma’s time was spent wrapping gifts, helping her mom prepare for the party, and convincing Ian that it wasn’t _quite_ Christmas yet.

It was busy, but the busyness helped keep her mind off of…everything.

“We should go to bed. Ian will be up at the crack of dawn begging us to let him open his presents from Santa. You haven’t really experienced Christmas until you’ve experienced _that_.”

Killian hums in amusement, his hand stroking her upper arm, then he sighs. “I’m sorry I missed all this in the past.”

“You’re experiencing it now,” Emma counters. “That’s what matters. And that’s all that will matter to Ian, too.”

Killian squeezes her shoulder and ducks his head to kiss the tip of her nose. Emma wiggles, snuggling closer.

“Plus,” she says, “you’ll be here for all of the baby’s Christmases.”

Killian jolts. “Oh, that reminds me…”

He levers himself up off the couch and disappears into the hallway that leads to the rooms at the back of the house. He returns with a wrapped box.

Emma sits up. “What’s that?”

“It’s for the baby,” he responds in a low voice.

Warmth blooms in Emma’s stomach. “Really?”

“Aye, really.”

He hands her the gift and sits back down beside her. Emma opens it with trembling hands, heart skittering in her chest, her entire body flushed.

“You didn’t have to do this,” she whispers.

He kisses her shoulder. “I wanted to be the one to get the Bean its first gift.”

“I’m a little surprised you beat my parents.”

“I almost didn’t—they bought you some gifts for the baby as well. I had to ask them to wait.”

Underneath the wrapping paper is a plain shirt box, and inside are three pairs of baby pajamas. They’re a set, all with the same pale yellow cuffs and collars.

“They’re gender neutral,” Killian explains. “I read that these colors are supposedly appropriate for boths boys and girls.”

Emma lifts one out and lets it unfold. It’s grey, patterned with white clouds. The second pair is white with gray stars, and the last pair is all gray with a sleeping moon and stars on the chest.

“Do you like them, love?”

“They’re perfect.” Still holding the pajamas, Emma leans into Killian’s chest and tucks her head beneath his chin.

Killian reaches out and catches one of the sleeves. “Will the babe truly be this small?” he asks wonderingly, running the fabric between his fingers.

“Smaller, probably,” Emma says. “This is supposed to be able to fit a baby up to 3 months old.”

He exhales.

After a moment, she says, “Can I tell you something?”

“Of course, love.”

"I was thinking about the baby’s name…”

"You have an idea?” he asks, with interest.

“Sort of—not for the first name. For the last name.” She feels him stiffen, and plows ahead. "I want the baby's last name to be Jones."

He’s silent for several long heartbeats, then he breathes, “_Emma_…”

"And” she continues, “I was thinking that Ian's last name should be Jones too—if he wants to change it."

When she saw Killian’s family tree...it made her sad. She wants Ian and this baby to be a new beginning for the Jones line.

Besides, Ian Jones sounds way better than Ian Swan—if Emma’s honest with herself, she thinks Ian was meant to be a Jones.

Knowing Killian, seeing how he is with Ian…she knows that, if they hadn’t been separated, Killian would have stepped up immediately when she told him she was pregnant, and she would have fallen more in love with him than she already was at that point—and even if they weren’t _together-_together by the time Ian was born, she would have given Ian Killian’s last name knowing that Killian would have done right by him and been the father he deserved.

Now, he’s here. This baby is _his_. And Emma knows he’ll be the father the Bean deserves, as well.

Killian slips from the couch and drops to his knees, his hand sliding down her arm and their fingers tangling. Forehead against her knuckles, his black hair brushing her wrist, he murmurs, “You’ve no idea what this means to me, Emma.”

She threads her free hand into his hair, holding him.

“This is quite touching,” says a voice.

Emma startles. “_What the fuck_.”

Will’s standing in the dark kitchen, a glass in his hand. “Sorry, I wasn’t eavesdropping. I was just trying to get some water. I didn’t want to interrupt.”

“And yet you did anyway,” Killian snarls.

He grins. “Couldn’t help it—and for future reference, William is a good, strong name for a baby. It goes well with Jones, too.”

“What if it’s a girl?”

“William is gender neutral.”

“Just how long _have_ you been standing there?”

“Long enough to learn the phrase ‘gender neutral’.”

“_Go_,” Killian thunders.

Will scatters. Emma giggles. “Alright, well…that killed the moment. Let’s go-”

Killian surges forward, capturing her lips in a kiss. It’s hot and passionate and a bit rough, his hand burying itself in her hair and keeping her mouth locked on his.

She clutches at his shirt, fisting her hands in the fabric and hanging on. She feels dizzy, every part of her aching to feel Killian’s skin, his weight; he slides his hook beneath her sweater, the blunt curve of it tracing a line from her hip bone to the small of her back—as much as Killian protested his ability to hold a baby with a hook as an appendage, he’s quite skilled with it, when he wants to be.

Emma breaks their kiss abruptly, panting. “Are you really gonna make Will listen to us have sex on the couch?”

“I was considering it, aye,” Killian purrs.

“Take me upstairs.” His hook is a spot of coolness against her overwarm skin, and she wants more, she wants to feel it elsewhere.

“As you wish.” He nuzzles his face against her neck, kisses her collarbone, and then he scoops her into his arms, and carries her to their bed.


	19. Chapter 19

Emma was wrong: Ian doesn’t wake them up at dawn, he wakes them up _before_ dawn.

It’s 5:30am and still dark when Ian explodes into their room screaming, “SANTA!”

Killian sits bolt upright just in time to catch Ian as he flings his body into their bed.

“Santa came!”

Ian’s skull collides with Killian’s face and Killian bites his own lip; he slams his hand over his mouth, stifling a stream of curses.

“Santa came,” Ian repeats, when no one reacts to his announcement.

“How do you know?” Killian asks through his fingers.

“I saw all the presents downstairs.”

Emma rolls over then, mumbling, “Go back to sleep.”

“But Santa came!” Ian protests.

“I don’t care. It’s too early to open gifts.”

“_Mom_.”

“Henry’s not even up. We can’t open gifts until he’s awake.”

Which is the entirely wrong thing to have said.

Immediately, Ian starts to slither off the bed.

“_Bloody hell_,” Killian grunts, and reaches out blindly in the nearly pitch-black room. He snags an ankle, and hauls Ian back.

Ian growls, but Killian runs his hand swiftly up Ian’s leg to the back of his knee and tickles. Ian bursts into laughter and tries to squirm away.

“Dad, stop!” he pleads between giggles.

“Only if you promise to go back to sleep until it’s _actually_ morning.”

Ian holds out for another 30 seconds before he finally gasps, “Ok! Ok! I’ll go back to sleep!”

Killian stops tickling him and lets him catch his breath, muscles tensed in case Ian makes another escape attempt, but the lad settles himself, so Killian scoots closer to Emma—who’s apparently already fallen back asleep—and lifts the blankets. “C’mon, get in.”

Ian turns onto his belly and crawls into the space Killian made for him, tucking himself against Killian’s side.

“When’s _actually_ morning?” he asks.

“When it’s light outside.”

Ian lifts his head up off of Killian’s chest, presumably to look out the window, then drops it back down with a huff.

Killian chuckles. “It’s only an hour or so away. Just close your eyes and go back to sleep; when you wake up again it will be time to open presents.”

“_Fine_.”

Killian closes his eyes and tries to relax, focusing on the warmth of the bed, the sound of Emma’s breathing close beside him, Ian’s hand curled gently around his blunted wrist—and _not_ on the thoughts swirling in the back of his mind, all the worries, all his questions about the future…

He’s nearly asleep again when Ian says, “Dad?”

“Mm?” he hums, keeping his eyes closed, hoping that whatever Ian’s about to ask doesn’t require the full use of his brain.

The arm Ian has thrown over Killian’s chest tightens, but he doesn’t respond.

“Ian?” Killian prompts. “What’s on your mind?”

After another long moment, Ian shakes his head. “Nothing,” he murmurs.

Killian, naturally, is not convinced—and how he’s fully alert again, as well. “Did you have a bad dream?” he asks.

Ian’s control over his power to dream walk—as Emma and Killian have taken to calling it, thanks to some research done by Henry—is growing; he’s figured out how to return both himself and Emma to the house, and from there Emma’s able to “step back into her body” and resume normal sleep.

Their nights have gone rather smoothly since then, only they don’t _actually_ know what Ian does after Emma leaves him.

They spoke to Ian about it, cautioned him to be careful with his power, not to wander too far or where he doesn’t belong, and although Ian promised them that he returns to sleep right after Emma does, neither of them are foolish enough to believe that that’s 100% true.

“No,” Ian says, then he giggles. “I had a dream that Kermit the Frog was Santa Claus.”

“You dreamt that Kermit the Frog was _Santa Claus_?” Killian repeats, feigning incredulity.

Ian giggles harder.

“My, what a strange dream,” Killian remarks—though he highly suspects that it has something to do with the fact that they’ve watched _A Muppet’s Christmas Carol_ every day for nearly two weeks.

Ian snuggles closer, and, octopus-like, hooks one of his legs over one of Killian’s legs. “He brought _you_ a present too.”

“Who did? Kermit?”

“_No!_” Ian laughs_._ “Santa did. I told him you never got a gift from him before so he brought you one.”

Killian’s surprised. He didn’t notice a gift for him from “Santa” last night when he, Emma, and Will were placing the presents from their closet beneath the tree.

Emma must have snuck one in there without him seeing.

He smiles in the dark. “Well, I’m excited to open it and see what he brought me.”

“Wanna open it _now_?”

“No, lad. Not yet. We’ll all open our gifts together when it’s morning.”

Ian grumbles something unintelligible.

Killian closes his eyes again and lets his mind drift, ignoring Ian’s restless fidgeting. His thoughts begin to loosen and float away, and the next thing he’s aware of is Henry shouting, “Get up, losers! It’s Christmas!”

He jolts and scrambles into a sitting position. Sunshine is pouring through the bedroom windows, and Henry’s standing in the doorway, grinning. Killian looks to his left and sees Emma struggling to extricate herself from the blankets Killian accidentally flipped onto her head, and to his right is an empty bed.

Henry jerks his thumb towards the hallway. “Ian’s downstairs. He woke me up like two hours ago.”

“You guys didn’t open presents yet, did you?” Emma says.

“No, but it’s getting really hard to keep him away from the tree, so can you two wake up please?”

Emma yawns and drags her fingers through her hair, pulling it away from her face. “Alright, we’ll be right down.”

Henry disappears. Killian turns to Emma and takes a moment to admire how she looks in the natural light—how the sun brings out the gold of her hair and the cream of her skin—before saying, “Merry Christmas, love.”

“Merry Christmas,” she replies, with a slow, drowsy smile.

“How did you sleep?”

She lets out what he recognizes as a very satisfied groan before, from downstairs, they hear Ian wail, “WAKE UP ALREADY!” followed by Will shushing him.

“It appears we slept in,” Killian comments.

Emma snorts, then shakes her head and sighs. “Let’s get down there before he throws an actual mutiny.”

They dress, but Killian stops Emma in the doorway and presses her against its wooden frame before she can leave the room. He lowers his head and kisses her, dipping his tongue briefly—teasingly—into her mouth, his hand on her hip, thumb swiping across the sliver of bare skin between the hem of her t-shirt and the waistband of her sweatpants.

“I love you,” he says, trailing his fingers towards her navel; the roundness of her belly seems to grow more noticeable every day, and Killian adores it—adores the evidence of the burgeoning life inside of Emma, the child they created together, the child that Killian will be able to cradle in his arms one day.

Focusing on that—on the wondrousness of it all—helps steady him and keep his mind off the Black Fairy.

“I love you, too.” She places her hand over his and flattens his palm against her stomach.

Killian knows it’s far too early to feel the baby moving but he goes still nonetheless, straining, hoping.

“I was thinking,” Emma starts, in a low voice.

“Aye, love? What about?”

“What my mom said last night.”

“What in particular?”

Snow was_ quite_ tipsy towards the end of the evening; Killian seems to remember many amusing things pouring from her mouth.

“About having a baby shower.”

“Ah. Are you thinking about having one?”

“Sort of. I…” She takes a deep breath. “I realized I’ve been unfair.”

“Unfair? To whom?”

“To the baby.”

Killian blinks, baffled, and pulls his forehead away from Emma’s so he can see her eyes.

Emma takes another deep breath and bites her lip before continuing, “Earlier, it felt like it made sense to be cautious—not just because of the Black Fairy but because of miscarriage and everything.”

_Miscarriage_.

Killian’s heart constricts at the word. He read that it’s fairly common, that nearly 20% of pregnancies end in miscarriage and that 8 out of 10 miscarriages happen in the first 3 months, but that didn’t make the possibility easier to bear.

“I’m almost 12 weeks,” Emma says, “so the risk is pretty low now. I think…I think it’s time to do what my mom said.”

“Have a baby shower?”

“No—well, yes, but…not just that.” She smiles softly, eyes sparkling. “I think we should start thinking about the future.”

His thumb is tracing a circle beside her navel—his effort to calm himself, to control the excitement rising in his chest. “What do you mean, love?”

“I mean that I want to do all the things that we _should_ be doing right now, like picking out names and buying baby clothes and planning a nursery. This baby deserves that.”

Killian grins. “I’m happy you feel that way, love.”

“Does that mean you agree with me?”

“It does.”

Killian wants this pregnancy to be treated as it would have been treated if the Black Fairy wasn’t a threat—the babe deserves that, and Emma deserves that too.

(And _maybe_, perhaps, Killian deserves it.)

“We still have to tell Ian,” Killian reminds her—reminds _himself_, before he’s swept away by his own excitement.

“We will,” Emma agrees, nodding. “Let’s do it tomorrow though. I want him to enjoy today, just in case he hates us after we tell him he’s going to be a big brother.”

“Alright, Swan.” Killian leans down and nuzzles his face into her neck, pressing kisses along her jaw all the way to her ear.

She gasps, fingers tightening on his bicep, and then-

“MOM! DAD!”

Killian’s head jerks up. Ian’s standing at the top of the stairs, frowning so deeply it’s almost comical.

“We’re coming,” Emma assures him, but Ian stays and scowls at them until they leave the doorway and follow him.

When they arrive downstairs, they find the front room already set up: the gifts that Emma, Killian, and Will painstakingly arranged beneath the tree are now sorted into piles—two large ones for Henry and Ian, and three smaller ones for Emma, Killian, and Will.

On the coffee table is their breakfast, a selection of holiday-flavored PopTarts and the leftover desserts Snow forced them to take home from the party.

Henry gestures them to the sofa and hands them each a mug—hot chocolate for Emma, and black coffee for Killian—then plops down on the rug beside Ian and their mountain of presents.

Emma explained the whole procedure to Killian beforehand, how she buys one little gift from herself for each of the boys, and the rest—what she calls the _big_ gifts—are from Santa. They do the gifts to each other first, to savor the sweetness of the small, thoughtful things they bought for each other; Killian receives a leather bookmark from Henry, and from Ian he gets a knotted bracelet made from some dark red, synthetic cord.

“Because you wear rings and necklaces and stuff,” Ian says, helping Killian slip the bracelet onto his wrist and then readjusting the knots so that the bracelet is tight. Despite his eagerness to _begin_ opening presents, he’s been infinitely patient during the actual process.

Killian admires the bracelet with a smile; it couldn’t have cost more than a dollar, and yet to him it’s more precious than all the treasure he possesses combined.

The climax of the morning is of course the presents from Santa. Emma and Killian bought Ian the Pokémon game and the Pikachu onesie he requested, and while he’s excitedly wrestling the onesie on over his pajamas, Henry opens a box containing an identical—albeit adult-sized—version.

“Mom, no-” Henry stammers, in horror—but he’s cut short by Ian, who tackles him, chanting, “Put it on put it on put it on!”

It takes some convincing (and some sly, mini-fridge-related bribery) to get Henry dressed in his onesie so that Emma can take pictures. After that, they dive immediately into their stockings, stuffed to the brim with candy.

Will accepts his stocking—purchased last minute by Emma when she realized he’d be without one on Christmas morning otherwise—and pulls out two candy canes. Gleefully, he inserts them into his mouth and then holds up the booklet of temporary tattoos Ian gifted him with.

“So, how are these supposed to work, anyway?”

Ian, mouth full of chocolate, jumps into his lap and starts explaining.

\---

Later, while Will’s napping in Ian’s bed because the boys are playing with the Nintendo Switch in the den, Killian corners Emma in the kitchen next to the toaster.

“Thank you for the gift,” he murmurs. “Santa” brought him a new journal, thick and leather-bound.

“You’re welcome,” Emma returns, leaning into the arms he has circling her waist. “I know your other one is almost full.”

He’s gone through two journals since arriving in Storybrooke 7 months ago—journals Ian likes to try and decipher, squinting at Killian’s cursive for long hours, occasionally gracing the pages with a few illustrations.

The toaster erupts, thrusting two halves of a bagel into the air, which Emma collects with quick, nimble fingers and deposits onto a plate.

Killian, grinning to himself, watches her apply a very generous amount of butter to her bagel, then asks, “What about Aidan?”

“Who’s Aidan?”

“Aidan’s a name. For the babe.”

She pins him a wry look over her shoulder. “Did you just think of that now or have you been looking at baby name websites this whole time?”

In answer, he kisses her cheek.

She shakes her head, but she’s smiling. “I like Aidan,” she says, after a moment. “Aidan and Ian. They kind of go together.”

“They do.”

“Do you have any more?”

“Names?”

“Yea.”

“Lucas?” Killian suggests.

Emma shrugs. “Eh.”

“Daniel?”

“That’s Henry’s middle name.”

“Oh. How about Matthew?”

“Henry wanted to name Ian Matthew.”

“Is that good or bad?”

“It’s good. I like Matthew.” She takes a huge bite of her bagel, chews, swallows, wipes a bit of butter from the corner of her mouth. “What about for girls?”

“Margaret.”

“As in, Mary Margaret?”

“Aye.”

“Oh. Hm. _Margaret_,” she says, experimentally. “Margaret Jones. I like that—I don’t know if I like _Maggie_ though.”

“Would we _have_ to call her Maggie?”

“No, but someone else might.”

They’re interrupted by Ian again, pattering into the kitchen and crashing into their joined bodies. He wraps his arms around their waists, tilts his chin up, and says, “I’m hungry.”

“Here.” Emma offers up her bagel, placing the edge of it delicately into Ian’s open mouth.

Ian bites down on his prize, tugs it from Emma’s hand, and flees.

“Hey!” Emma calls after him. “I meant take a _bite_, not the whole thing!”

Ian just cackles, and a split second later Henry enters the kitchen.

“Are there bagels?” he asks.

Emma sighs, and slides her plate with the remaining, untouched half of her bagel on it across the counter towards him. “Take that. I’ll make more.” After Henry retreats, she mumbles, “Remind me again why we decided to have another kid?”

“As I recall, there wasn’t any actual _deciding_ involved, love,” Killian chuckles.

“Oh, yea. Remind me to have an actual discussion about whether or not it’s a good idea next time.”

He looks at her sharply, but she’s busy slicing a bagel and doesn’t seem to realize what she said.

Killian smiles, the words _next time_ settling over his heart.

\---

Snow, David, Sarah, and the Apprentice arrive at 3, bearing desserts and more gifts even though Emma ordered them not to bring anything.

“How was Misthaven?” Emma asks, accepting a tray of what smells like freshly-baked cookies from her mother.

“It was good,” Snow responds. She and David provided a present from Santa Claus for all the children at Misthaven, and spent the morning there watching them all open their gifts. “We saw your brother there, Killian.”

“Oh?” Killian hasn’t _forgotten_ about Liam, but he truthfully hasn’t given the man much thought since their reunion. “How is he?”

“Fine,” Snow replies mildly, and without meeting Killian’s eyes.

“He’s…a little awkward around the kids,” David supplies, clearly struggling to keep from smiling.

“I bet,” Killian mutters to himself. He remembers how awkward _he_ felt around Ian at first, so he can’t imagine how Liam must feel; he doubts his brother has any more experience with kids than Killian did.

They eat an early dinner, and then Sarah produces the gingerbread houses that she brought for them to make.

“It’s another tradition,” Emma informs Killian happily while they watch Henry hold two gigantic slabs of gingerbread steady while Ian slathers them with sticky frosting. “Me and the boys would spend Christmas Eve in the apartment by ourselves, but for Christmas dinner we’d go downstairs with Sarah and Tiana and the kids and spend the night watching movies and making gingerbread houses.”

When the houses are finished, they set Henry’s laptop up on the kitchen table and Skype with Tiana.

Ian, Sienna, and Cole spend a full twenty minutes chattering about what they got from Santa, then they take turns showing off their gingerbread houses. Cole declares that Henry’s is the best, which earns him some sharp words from his sister.

Tiana takes over after that, and after she and Emma finish catching up, Sarah and the Apprentice announce that it’s time for them to go home.

Ian moans dejectedly and follows them both to the door like a forlorn puppy; he stares out of the window at their car until Henry smacks him on the head with the book of Mad Libs that Ian gave him for Christmas, and declares, “We’re doing these.”

While they’re chortling over Mad Libs at the coffee table, Killian, Emma, Will, and Emma’s parents sit in the kitchen chatting and nibbling on the gingerbread houses.

Ian crashes early, but he still has to be coaxed to his room with the promise that they’ll put the glow-in-the-dark stars he received from Emma and Killian up on his ceiling tomorrow.

Killian carries him, deciding—uncharacteristically, he knows—to let the lad sleep in his clothes and deal with it in the morning. As he bends to lay Ian in bed, Ian whimpers a protest and clings to his neck.

“What’s wrong?” Killian asks, folded at an uncomfortable angle with Ian’s weight dragging him ever lower.

Ian’s answer is another stubborn, wordless whine, so with a grunt Killian shifts and turns so that he can sit with Ian in his lap.

“Ian, what’s wrong?”

Ian lifts his face away from Killian’s chest. He’s wearing a fragile expression Killian doesn’t think he’s ever seen before, and in a small voice, he asks, “Why do you have a picture of a ghost in your drawer?”

“A what?” Killian’s mind races, trying to make sense of what the lad means.

And when he realizes, his blood turns to ice.

_The sonogram._

The sonogram is in the drawer of the bedside table where Killian keeps his journal, and if someone—especially a very young someone—stumbled across it and didn’t _know _what it was, they might guess that the swirly gray and white image was a ghost.

“It’s…it’s not a ghost,” Killian admits, after a tense pause.

“What is it?”

Killian hesitates. “Is this…is this what you wanted to ask me about this morning?”

Ian nods, and Killian tries to put himself in Emma’s place, to imagine how she would expertly deflect Ian’s question—but his mind is blank.

And Ian’s still staring at him.

And the longer Killian doesn’t answer, the less likely Ian is to believe whatever weak lie Killian offers him.

“It’s a picture of your mother’s stomach,” he says finally.

“Of inside her stomach?”

_He knows already_, Killian decides. It makes what he says next easier.

“Aye, lad. It’s a photo of what’s inside your mother’s stomach.”

Ian was fiddling with a button on Killian’s shirt, twisting it back and forth, but he stops now. “Are you and mom having a baby?”

Killian wishes there were some way to reach Emma, some way that didn’t involve screaming for her at the top of his lungs in panic.

He takes a deep breath. “Yes, lad. We’re having a baby.”

Ian’s eyes flicker away.

_Bloody hell_.

“Ian,” Killian pleads quietly. “Ian, look at me.”

Ian does, a tiny crease between his brows.

“Are you upset?”

Ian’s lips compress stubbornly, but they quiver.

Killian gathers the boy close, hugging him tightly to his chest, wrapping his arms around his shoulders and ducking his head to press his lips to Ian’s hair.

“I love you,” he says. “Nothing will ever change how much I love you, or how special you are to me. Understand?”

Ian shrugs. Killian can feel his hands gripping his shirt, his shoulders trembling.

_Fuck._

He’s not handling this very well at all. He needs Emma.

Swiftly, he stands, Ian bundled in his arms. “C’mon, lad. Let’s go find your mother.”

_She’ll fix this._

With every step his chest feels tighter, his lungs less able to breath. He nearly stumbles when he reaches the bottom of the stairs, because standing in the foyer beside a bewildered Emma is Regina.

There’s a fresh, winter chill in the air, and a sprinkle of snow on the inside doormat, so Killian guesses she only just arrived.

“This is clearly a bad time,” Regina states, when she sees Killian.

Emma’s eyes flick from Killian to Ian and then back to Regina. “It’s fine,” she says. “What’s going on? Is everything okay?”

Regina opens her mouth, but wavers, gaze wandering again to Killian.

David and Snow are in the kitchen, both as puzzled as Emma, David with his arms crossed and his head cocked to the side. Henry’s in the front room, posture tense.

“Regina?” Emma prompts.

Killian makes a quick decision he hopes he doesn’t end up regretting—he carries Ian to Henry and dumps Ian in his arms.

“Uh…”

“Take him upstairs,” Killian says, then bends his head and puts his lips to Henry’s ear. “He just asked me if your mother’s having a baby.”

Henry, eyebrows at his hairline, nods and leaves. Killian watches them until they’re out of sight, feeling as if his heart’s being borne away with them. When he rejoins the group, Emma’s looking at him questioningly, but he shakes his head and mutters, “Later,” hoping that_ later_ isn’t _too_ late.

“I have something for you,” Regina announces. “A…gift.”

“Oh,” Emma says, in surprise. “Uh, you didn’t have to.”

“It’s not what you think. It’s…” Regina makes a face, sighs. “I’ll just show you.”

“It’s—perhaps this _isn’t_ the best time,” Killian reasons, thinking of Ian, but Regina’s already reaching into her purse and David, Snow, and Will are now all gathered close, curiously.

Regina extracts something long and thin from the depths of her bag; it’s wrapped in a piece of velvet, and when Regina pulls the velvet back, Killian recognizes what the tapering, spiraled length of pale bone she’s holding is immediately.

Emma, however, wrinkles her nose and asks, “What is it?”

Regina frowns. “It’s a unicorn horn.”

“Oh.” Emma blinks. “So—not that I don’t appreciate it—but…why are you giving me a unicorn horn?”

“Unicorns are rare creatures with very special magic,” Regina explains patiently, “but their horns possess a very unique power. At least, that’s what the myth says-”

“Oh my God,” Snow interrupts. “Are you talking about what I think you’re talking about?”

Regina purses her lips sourly. “May I finish?”

“Sorry, sorry, yes, go ahead,” Snow says hastily, her eyes bright and excited over the hand she clamps over her own lips.

“As I was saying,” Regina drawls, “there’s a myth claiming that if a pregnant woman touches the horn of a unicorn, she will see a vision of her child’s future.”

Killian’s eyes widen with the weight of that revelation. He knew every part of a unicorn could be utilized for crafting spells and potions, but he never knew…never had any idea that they were capable of what Regina just described.

“You mean,” Emma says slowly, hands drifting to her belly, “that if I touch that horn, I’ll see the baby’s future?”

“Yes, precisely.” She looks at Killian then. “And while it’s supposed to only work for the mother, since you two share the bond of True Love I’d wager it will work for Hook as well—if you both touch it at the same time, that is.”

Emma turns to him. “We could see the baby’s future,” she breathes.

They’ll be able to see if the baby’s okay or not.

He stares back mutely, unable to speak.

“Should we do it?” Emma asks.

Killian wants to, terribly. But he’s also frightened—they could discover that the baby has _no_ future, and…

And they have another problem.

“Ian,” Killian huffs. “When I took him upstairs, he…he saw the sonogram in my drawer, love. He asked me if you and I are having a baby.”

Emma inhales sharply. “_Shit_.”

“I know—I’m sorry, Swan, I didn’t-”

“No, it’s fine, it’s…” She squeezes her eyes shut. “Goddammit. I’ll be right back.”

She darts away, flying up the stairs.

Killian turns back to Regina. “I’m sorry. I—we thank you for the gift, but…it’s not a good time.”

He’s unable to restrain himself from casting one final, forlorn glance at the unicorn horn before Regina flips the velvet cover over it.

To his surprise, she thrusts the wrapped horn towards him. “Here, take it.”

“Are you certain?” he asks, even as his hand reaches for it.

“Of course—I said it was a gift, didn’t I?” Abruptly, her voice softens. “I…I heard what Emma said at the party last night, about wishing she could see the future and know that her baby will be okay.”

“Yes,” is all Killian can manage.

Regina nods and folds her gloved hands against her stomach, eyes averted. “Just be careful that Emma doesn’t touch it until she’s ready.”

“I will. Thank you.”

“Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas,” Killian returns quietly.

David and Snow see her to the door, where they have a muttered conversation. Killian’s thoughts snap to Ian. He hands the unicorn horn to Will. “Keep this safe,” he says, and then he races upstairs.

He expects to find disaster awaiting him in Ian’s room, but everything’s in place.

Henry and Ian are laying on the bed, Henry with his back propped against the pillows and his long legs sprawled out in front of him, and Ian tucked against his side, beneath his arm. Emma’s sitting on the edge of the mattress, one of her hands on Ian’s knee.

“I’m really excited for you,” she’s telling him. “You get to be a big brother just like Henry’s a big brother.”

Ian’s still wearing a wobbly frown, but he’s listening, and he’s not turned away. Killian steps into the room and sits beside Emma on the edge of the mattress.

“Think about how much you love Henry,” Emma continues. “You love him a lot, right?”

“Yea,” Ian mumbles.

“That’s how much this baby’s going to love _you_.”

She puts her hand on her stomach; Ian tracks the movement.

Emma smiles. “Do you wanna see?”

She eases the hem of her sweater halfway up her abdomen, exposing the swell of her belly, which she’s kept masked thus far with loose clothing.

Ian sits up, eyes locked on Emma’s stomach. “The baby’s really in there?”

“Mmhm. You can touch it if you want.”

Ian places his hand carefully on her stomach, and, after a moment, his head follows. He puts his ear against her belly button, as if listening.

Emma drops her hand onto Ian’s hair and strokes her fingers along his scalp. “When the baby’s bigger, you’ll be able to feel it moving around.”

Ian manages to look up at Emma without taking his ear away from her belly. “Really?”

“Yep. Did you know Henry used to talk to you when you were still in my stomach?”

“Mom!” Henry blurts, cheeks flaming red.

Ian grins. “He did?”

“Yea, he did. He used to tell you about all the cool things you two would do together when you were born.”

Ian’s brow furrows, then he sits up and slowly leans back, tucking himself once more to Henry’s side. “I don’t want another brother.”

Emma’s tone is gentle. “It might be a boy, Ian. You might have a little brother soon.”

Ian’s eyes fill with tears. “I don’t want you to forget about me.”

Henry nudges him. “Ian, that’s not how it works—did mom forget about _me_ because you were born?”

Ian sniffles. “No.”

“Then why would I ever forget about _you_?” Emma asks.

“I don’t know.”

Emma opens her arms. “C’mere, kid.”

With another sniffle, Ian climbs into her lap. Emma wraps her arms around him, hugs him tight, and rocks him from side to side.

“We’re never ever going to forget about you, kid,” she soothes. “We love you. Okay?”

As before, with Killian, Ian doesn’t respond.

Killian runs his hand lightly down Ian’s arm. “How about we read you some books?”

That might calm him down enough to sleep, give Emma and Killian time to regroup.

Ian twitches his arm away from Killian’s fingers. “I want Henry to read to me.”

\---

Stung, they leave Ian with Henry and retreat downstairs.

David and Snow accept their explanation and politely excuse themselves so that Emma and Killian can have their privacy; Will hands over the unicorn horn, and then it’s just Emma and Killian alone, in the front room.

“Are you certain Ian’s alright, love?”

“No,” Emma answers bluntly. “But he will be.” She examines his face for a moment, fists on her hips. “I warned you.”

“Aye, love. You did. I’m sorry, I…I feel very badly.”

She steps into him and hugs him. “I do too.” She sighs against his shirt. “Ian will be okay. We just-” She tilts her head back to gaze up at him. “Telling him that things aren’t going to change isn’t reassuring enough for him. He needs to actually_ see_ that we’re not replacing him with a new baby.”

“How do we do that?”

Emma shrugs, and rests her head against his chest. “By being normal. By making sure he doesn’t feel left out. Maybe by giving him some extra attention without making it seem like we’re trying to schmooze him.”

Killian chuckles. “Alright, Swan. I think we can do that.”

They stay like that for a long time, holding each other. Killian’s almost forgotten about the unicorn horn, so wrapped up in the feel of Emma’s body against his and the fact that she smells amusingly like peppermint, until she asks, “So we just…touch it?”

He glances at the horn, resting on the coffee table in its velvet wrapping. “Yes. That’s what Regina said.”

“This means we’ll find out if it’s a boy or a girl.”

Killian grins, his excitement mounting in a rush. “Aye, we will. Maybe we’ll be able to give Ian some good news.”

Emma bends to pick up the horn, and cradles it between them. “Ready?”

“_Yes_.”

Together, they wrap their hands around the unicorn horn.

Their surroundings blur and start to swirl.

Killian squints, trying to make sense of the colors whirling around them. Pieces solidify, form images, snatches of scenes—Ian sitting in Killian’s reading chair, Killian kneeling in front of him, gently placing a tiny, blanket-wrapped bundle in Ian’s arms; then Henry, sitting in the same chair with a baby in his lap, reading a book.

Killian shakes his head, closing his eyes briefly against the dizzying tornado, and turns. When he opens his eyes again, an image of Emma walks by, bouncing a golden-haired toddler on her hip, and then noise from the kitchen, Killian’s doppelganger chasing a small, naked, giddy child covered in bath bubbles around the table.

Abruptly, everything settles and goes still. They’re still standing in the front room, but it’s different.

Killian looks around, absorbing the changes; unfamiliar furniture in a new configuration, walls that are pale blue instead of dove grey, more framed photographs on the mantle…the only thing that hasn’t changed is the reading nook, which has the same navy armchairs and walnut bookcase.

“Mom! Dad!”

Killian tears his gaze from the books on the bottom shelf—children’s books that aren’t there in his time—and turns towards the stairs.

Standing in the hallway is a girl, and Killian doesn’t need special powers to know who she is.

Glaring at him with eyes as green as sea glass is his and Emma’s daughter.

_The Bean._

Killian’s still not very good with children’s ages, but she looks to be about Roland’s age, 9 or 10. She has the same golden hair as Emma and Ian, perfectly straight and cropped at her shoulders; she takes after Emma, but with Killian’s oval face and David’s full lips.

She’s beautiful, and Killian feels such a powerful surge of _love_ that he takes a physical step forward. Emma grabs hold of his arm, holding him in place, keeping his fingers on the unicorn horn.

“_Dad_,” the girl says again, as if annoyed that Killian hasn’t answered her yet. 

Before Killian can respond, there’s thundering on the stairs and a loud, “Hey!”

The girl whirls, and is met by another girl. This one’s younger, but not by much, and _this_ girl—Killian would bet both the Jolly Roger and his remaining hand that she’s his and Emma’s daughter as well.

She has Emma’s nose and her deep green eyes, but beyond that, she looks…

_She looks like my mother_.

A younger version of Saoirse Jones with shining, dark brown hair instead of red is standing there, glowering at her older sister.

_Sisters_, Killian thinks.

A bubble of joyous laugher rises up his throat.

Not only is the Bean okay, but he and Emma have another child after it—after _her_.

He finds his gaze wandering up the stairs. Are there more children up there, perhaps? He hopes there are—he’d be perfectly content to raise an army of children with Emma-

“You said you’d play dolls with me!” the younger, dark-haired girl accuses.

_Dolls_, Killian thinks, giddily. Two little girls with their dolls.

The blonde girl rolls her eyes. “I’ll play with you later.”

“You said you’d play with me _now_!”

“No, I said I’d play with you after I practiced.”

“Why can’t you play with me now and practice later?”

“Because I want to_ practice_ now.”

“But Ian’s down there.”

The dark-haired girl gestures towards the doorway that leads to the basement, from which, Killian realizes, he can hear a familiar, rhythmic thumping.

Someone is down there flinging a tennis ball at the wall with a hockey stick.

And he’d bet any of the rest of his remaining appendages that it’s Ian.

His heart flutters eagerly—will they see Ian, too? An older, teenage version of him?

He looks at Emma. She’s staring at the two girls softly, her free hand cradling her rounded belly.

“Dad!”

Killian snaps to attention. The blonde girl is scowling at him again.

“Can you tell Ian to get out of the basement? It’s my turn.”

“No,” moans the younger one. “Play with me!”

“Later.”

“_C’mon_!”

“Stop arguing,” snaps Ian, appearing in the doorway, having just trudged up the basement steps.

Killian hears Emma’s breath hitch, and he feels equally speechless.

The boy in front of them can barely be called a boy anymore; Killian sees the Ian that he knows, but the round, childish face has resolved into harder, sharper angles.

“Holy shit, Killian,” Emma whispers, fingers digging urgently into his arm. “He really does look just like you.”

He does, the only visible difference the golden hair and brows—although Killian thinks Ian’s nose is shorter, his face not as long as Killian’s and his jaw squarer. Minute differences, noticed only when one looks closely.

And he’s tall, as tall as Killian—perhaps taller, which Killian’s surprised to discover annoys him.

“Here.” Ian flicks his wrists and flips his hockey gloves off—directly at his sister, the blonde one.

She catches the gloves but drops them immediately as though scalded. “Ew, Ian!” she hisses. “Why are they so sweaty?”

“Because_ I’m_ sweaty.”

“You’re disgusting!”

Ian snickers.

Killian recognizes the bickering: Ian and Henry quarrel like this all the time.

“Ugh.” The blonde girl pushes past Ian and races down the stairs into the basement.

Ian turns to his younger, dark-haired sister. “I’ll play dolls with you, E.”

“Ok!” she says brightly.

And then something happens that probably shouldn’t shock Killian but does anyway—a pile of dolls materializes in the dark-haired girl’s arms, and a doll house that looks more like some sort of gothic castle appears on the rug at his feet.

Killian drops the unicorn horn, blinks, and he’s back in his own time, in the front room he knows, the little girl’s voice asking, “Mom, dad, do you wanna play too?” a ghostly echo in his ears.

He looks at Emma. She looks back.

_They all have magic_, he thinks. They already know Ian does; the Black Fairy confirmed that the Bean does too; and Killian believes they just saw evidence that their third child together does as well.

Bloody hell. _Three_ children. A little family they created.

Seeing the Bean is proof that she’s okay; but seeing the other girl, their other daughter, is a sign that _they_ make it—he and Emma; sometime after _this_ baby is born they decide to have another, and they raise them all in this house…

“Emma,” he says, because words fail him, words can’t describe the immense feeling of relief and delight pounding against his ribs.

“It’s alright,” Emma replies, eyes locked on his, a smile spreading across her face. “Everything’s gonna be alright.”

“_She’s_ going to be alright,” Killian corrects.

A girl.

The Bean is a _girl._

He laughs. “Should we tell Ian that he gets his wish?”

“That might be a little hard to explain.”

But they go upstairs anyway, only to find Ian passed out cold and Henry reading _Snowmen at Night _all by himself.

“What?” he asks.

“Merry Christmas, Henry—you’re getting a sister.”

Henry puts the book down and smiles. “Thank God, I didn’t really want another brother either.”


	20. Chapter 20

All of a sudden, it’s New Year’s Eve.

Emma, who’s had no idea what day it is since Christmas, is apparently the only one surprised.

“Are you _sure_?” she asks Henry, on what feels like a Sunday morning.

“Pretty sure, yea,” Henry replies, and slides his phone across the kitchen table at her.

Emma stares at the date on the screen. “It’s Tuesday?”

“Yes. Tuesday. December 31st. New Year’s Eve.”

“But how?”

“Uh, this thing called time? It passes?”

Emma grunts in disagreement. That means Christmas was a week ago already, which means that they’ve spent roughly 5 whole days doing nothing but lounging around the house, watching movies and eating junk food.

She pushes her plate away to make room for her elbows, which she props on the table so she can drop her chin into her hands. “Tomorrow’s Killian’s birthday.”

Henry stares. “What? Really?”

“Yep. Really.”

“Did you get him something?”

“Yes.” Emma put it together weeks ago, in November. She debated whether to give it to him for Christmas or for his birthday, and decided to save it for his birthday.

“Are we having a party for him or anything?” Henry asks.

Emma hesitates. “Sort of.”

“What does ‘sort of’ mean?”

“Well, I knew New Year’s Eve would be a huge night for the bar, so I kind of figured we could have everyone gather there tonight to celebrate, and then on Wednesday—_tomorrow_—we’ll do something small here, just the four of us and a birthday cake.”

Which is the part Emma knows Killian will appreciate the most, more than all of their friends assembled for a raucous New Year’s Eve party in his honor.

Henry arcs a brow. “Okay…so what’s the problem?”

“The problem is that I forgot to actually call everyone and tell them that.”

Henry scrubs a hand down his face, exhaling deeply. “Alright, here’s what we’re going to do…”

\---

They sneak Ian up to Henry’s room and put him to work making a ‘Happy Birthday’ banner.

He’s been less disappointed with them since they told him that he’s going to have a little sister and _not_ another brother, but it took him nearly a full 24 hours to acknowledge Killian’s existence again—he was leaving for work on Thursday, the day after Christmas, when Ian bolted out of nowhere and barreled into him, hugging him tightly and whimpering, “Don’t go!”

Killian smiled in relief, pressed his cheek to Ian’s hair, and held him, murmuring reassurances in his ear until Ian finally let him go.

(Emma woke up the next morning to an empty bed, and when she wandered down the hallway to Ian’s room she found the two of them curled up together fast asleep.)

Since then, Ian’s been gradually warming up to the idea of Emma having a baby; she wouldn’t say he’s _excited_ about it, but he’s definitely no longer resentful.

Henry, on the other hand, _is_ excited about the baby, and now that the Bean’s not a secret from Ian anymore he’s started to let his excitement show.

Often, Emma walks in on Henry and Killian debating names.

“Do I get any say in this?” she asked them once.

“We’ll give you our short list,” Henry answered, grinning.

“Ok, well, for the record, ‘no’ to all the names I just heard.”

“Why not, love?” Killian complained.

“Because they sound like stripper names.”

Henry chortled, and Killian, cheeks red, very aggressively started crossing out several names on the list he started compiling.

Seeing their daughter’s future has had only one downside so far: now that Emma knows what the Bean looks like, it’s going to be extra difficult to choose a name for her.

But _fuck_, does Emma love her fiercely already.

It’s been difficult to get the image of that tall girl with seafoam green eyes out of her head. Emma adores everything about her: that her golden hair matches Ian’s, the spray of freckles on her nose, that she resembles David a bit; Emma also adores her sharpness and her impatience, the way she demanded Killian’s attention, and what’s clearly a competitiveness towards her brother.

_Fire_, the Black Fairy said, _The boy is a storm—wind and water and lightning—but this one…this one is fire, _and Emma thinks she’s right in more ways than one.

But the Bean isn’t that girl yet, the Bean is the size of a plum in Emma’s belly, giving her sore boobs and round ligament pain and a ferocious appetite.

Emma’s grateful that they know the baby will be okay, but she has to tuck that knowledge securely away and focus on the now—on protecting the baby from whatever the Black Fairy has planned.

(And on ensuring Henry and Killian don’t try to name her something ridiculous like _Bambi_.)

“How do you spell birthday?”

Emma looks down at Ian, sprawled on Henry’s carpet with every single marker, crayon, and colored pencil he owns spread around him.

“B-I-R-T-H-D-A-Y,” she says.

Tongue between his teeth, Ian starts drawing a gigantic bubble-letter ‘B’.

“You’ll be okay up here by yourself?” Emma asks.

“Uh-huh.”

“You know how to spell ‘dad’, right?”

Ian nods, brow furrowing as he begins the ‘I’.

Emma closes Henry’s bedroom door behind her and descends the stairs to the second floor. She goes to Ian’s room, where naturally he made a mess trying to find the one Intergalactic Mr. Sketch marker that “Smells like _moon rocks_, mom,” that he really, really, really needs to use or else the banner won’t be perfect.

Idly, she cleans up, needing something active to do while she waits.

She’s _supposed_ to be the distraction, but Killian’s not even home; he drove to the grocery store to pick up more eggs and flour because the boys have been going nuts with the waffle maker, experimenting with leftover Christmas candy and literally anything they find in the cabinets, creating what they call their “Frankenstein waffles”.

(Some of them, honestly, have been pretty not bad.)

After Emma’s sorted all the laundry on the floor either into the hamper or back into a drawer, she collapses onto Ian’s bed.

Above her, barely visible in the daylight, are an array of glow-in-the-dark stars.

The night Killian put them up, Emma turned out the lights, laid in bed with Ian, and listened to him name all the constellations for her—because Killian, being Killian, arranged them all into _actual_ constellations.

Just as Emma locates Cygnus, she realizes something thin and hard is poking her in the ribs.

She shifts so she can reach underneath her and pull out the book that was hiding beneath Ian’s comforter.

Emma smiles when she sees the cover.

_Peter’s Chair_.

The day after Christmas, Emma researched storybooks that might help Ian adjust to his upcoming big-brotherhood—it seemed a little too soon, however, to start shoving propaganda down the poor kid’s throat, so she borrowed the books from the library but left them on his dresser, where he can see them but where he doesn’t feel obligated to look at them.

Apparently, he _has_ looked at them, and she knows that—when he’s ready—he’ll ask her and Killian to read one to him.

Emma flips open _Peter’s Chair_ and starts reading; when she’s finished, on a whim, she searches Ian’s bed for more books and discovers _Julius, Baby of the World_, which she also reads.

Killian arrives when she’s halfway through, stepping into the room with a grin. “You’re not who I was expecting to find here,” he says.

“Disappointed?”

“Not at all.” He bends low to kiss her, then straightens and sits down. “May I ask why you’re in our son’s bed reading his books?”

“Well, I was lying here, admiring the Big Dipper, when I found _these_ hiding under the blankets.”

She shows him the two books she found.

His eyebrows twitch upwards towards his hairline. “Really?”

“Yea. Ian must have been reading them.”

“That’s good. Right?”

It was hard for Killian, that first day after Christmas, when Ian was very obviously upset with him.

“Yea, I think so,” Emma says softly, lifting her hand to Killian’s cheek and running the backs of her fingers along his jaw.

Something fervent sparks in his eyes.

“Where’s Ian?” he asks, voice low and rough.

“In Henry’s room.”

“And where’s Henry?”

“He took the Bug to run some errands.”

“Is Ian…occupied?”

“Very.”

Killian smirks, one eyebrow quirking questioningly. Emma nods, mutely, because her throat is tight and she’s impossibly warm all over. He takes her hand, pulls her from the bed, and leads her down the hallway to their room.

\---

In the end, they tell Killian about his birthday party.

He’s a little exasperated and overwhelmed and Emma can see him edging towards asking that they _don’t_ throw him a party, but then Ian shows Killian the banner that he made, the one he spent 5 solid hours on, and Killian visibly melts.

“Alright,” he concedes.

They eat an early dinner—some fancy, baked mac and cheese recipe that Henry cooked—and then they get ready.

It takes Emma a full 45 minutes to find an outfit that doesn’t make her angry.

Killian reclines on the bed and watches her pull on dress after dress, grinning.

Finally, she settles on a loose cotton shift with a dense floral pattern that’s definitely meant to be worn in the summer but is going to have to do because it’s the only one that isn’t too tight on her belly.

(The stretchy black sheath dress with long sleeves _did_ fit comfortably, but it wasn’t made with a pregnant lady in mind and it looked absolutely ridiculous on her.)

“Are you sure we’re not having twins, love?” Killian teases.

Emma throws him an icy glare.

She does get it, though. Her tummy isn’t _big_—at least, not compared to how big it will be in 20 weeks—but it’s bigger than it was at this stage with either Ian or Henry. She went from being underweight to overweight in the space of two weeks, and it hasn’t been an easy adjustment.

(Mostly because she still hasn’t shopped for more appropriate clothing for her size aside from some maternity leggings.)

“You saw the scans,” Emma huffs. “It’s just the Bean in there.”

_A very big Bean._

God, she hopes she doesn’t give birth to a 10-pounder. Henry was 7.5 and Ian was an even 6 and Emma still doesn’t understand how her vagina was able knit itself back together after _either_ delivery.

Chuckling, Killian joins her in front of the mirror, sliding his arms around her waist from behind and gently cupping her belly with both his hand and the flat of his hook.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs.

Emma grumbles in disagreement.

“I’m serious, Swan. You look stunning.”

She sighs and falls still and tries to see what he sees.

Aside from the swell of her abdomen, the rest of her body looks the same as usual. Her skin isn’t quite _glowing_ yet, but it’s getting there, and her hair has started to thicken as well—something Killian’s definitely noticed, if the way he winds his fingers tightly through it while they make love is any indication.

Emma leans her head back against Killian’s shoulder.

“Do you believe me now?” he asks, pressing a kiss to her neck.

“No, but keep saying it anyway.”

There’s a knock on the door, followed by Henry’s voice. “You guys ready yet?”

Through the wood, Emma hears Ian declare, “I bet they’re kissing.”

A pause, then Henry bellows, “Are you guys kissing?”

“Yea, are you guys kissing?” Ian chirps.

The next sound is of two sets of fists hammering the outside of Emma and Killian’s (mercifully locked) bedroom door.

“Well, I _did_ have an erection,” Killian laments. “But now it appears that will have to wait.”

“Tell it to come back later,” Emma says, spinning on her heel to kiss him swiftly on the cheek, then brushing past him to fetch her leggings for underneath the dress.

“Can I tell it to meet me in my office at midnight?” Killian asks silkily. 

“Are we still talking about your erection?”

“Aye.”

“Then yes—only if I’m _also_ meeting you in your office at midnight.”

“I’ll send out the appropriate invitations,” Killian says, then tears open their bedroom door. In a giggling heap, Henry and Ian topple inside.

\---

They tape Ian’s banner up at the bar, with a lot of scotch tape and a lot of swearing from Will, because the banner is really just 20 separate sheets of A4 and halfway through Will realizes it’s on a complete diagonal and he has to start over.

Henry bought decorations: silver and gold streamers, Christmas tinsel that he claims was on sale and rebelliously drapes over the backs of all the chairs, bunches of black balloons, noisemakers, and paper top hats.

“I couldn’t find the tiaras,” he apologizes, handing one of the hats to Emma.

(Ava arrives with them later though, having found them at a store Henry failed to visit, and Emma swaps her gold top hat for a gold tiara.)

Every patron who enters The Crow’s Nest is immediately made aware that they’re celebrating Killian’s birthday in conjunction with New Year’s Eve. Many of his regulars buy a round of shots in his honor and then beg him to take one.

Killian obliges, though after his second boilermaker Will steps in—only to tap out after three lemon drops in a row; David takes over after that, and then Robin, and then Little John.

Emma’s sitting at the corner of the counter near the window, sandwiched between Ruby and Belle.

“Have you started picking out names?” Ruby asks, bumping Emma’s shoulder with her own.

“A little bit,” Emma admits. _Well, Henry and Killian have._

“Obviously you should name her Ruby, after me.”

“No,” Belle cuts in. “You should name her after _me_.”

“Or you could _combine_ our names: Rubelle.”

“_Belluby_,” Belle counters. “Rubelle sounds like rubella.”

“What’s rubella?”

“Measles,” Emma says.

“Ew. Okay, _Belluby_ it is.”

While they chortle to themselves, Emma glances around for Ian.

Ultimately, Emma realized she couldn’t throw a “party” for Killian but not let Ian come, so he’s here—currently seated beside Liam, peppering the man with questions.

To his credit, Liam is giving Ian his full attention, even though it’s obvious he’s out of his depth.

Will is hovering nearby—for Ian’s sake, Emma knows, but Liam keeps looking at him, and _not_ in an unfriendly way.

(When Will reaches across the counter to tweak Ian’s ear, for instance, there’s a brief flash of longing on Liam’s face, as though he wishes it were _his_ ear Will tugged on.)

Abruptly, Emma’s vision is filled by a leather vest, a purple paisley shirt, and a silver chain tangled in a scrumptious swathe of chest hair.

She smiles up at Killian as he sets another non-alcoholic hot toddy at her fingertips.

“For you, my love,” he purrs.

Emma doesn’t miss the way he says ‘_my_ love’ instead of just his usual ‘love’; nor does it escape her that he’s buzzed.

“You’re a little drunk, Captain.”

He grins and leans one elbow on the counter.

Emma lifts the hot toddy to her lips, inhaling its warm, sweet scent. “You know, I’m not sure it’s legal for you to be drunk on the job.”

“Are you going arrest me, Sheriff?”

He seems entirely too interested in that happening.

“Maybe,” she says.

“Did you bring your handcuffs?”

She smirks. “Maybe.”

Killian lifts his chin and studies her for a moment. “Did you receive my invitation?”

“I did.” He sent her a text that read: _11:45, my office_.

“Can I expect your attendance?”

“You can.”

Will barges in, shoving Killian to the side with his hip to make room. “Am I invited?” he asks.

“Absolutely not,” Killian snarls, and stalks away to help a customer at the other end of the bar.

“Trust me, Scarlet,” Ruby says archly, “You don’t want to go.”

\---

At 11, Leroy lugs an old TV in and hooks it up so they can tune into the news to watch the ball drop in Times Square.

10 minutes to midnight, amidst the chaos of everyone organizing themselves for the countdown, Emma and Killian slip away to the back office, where Killian closes the door, locks it, and then pins her against it.

The strength with which he lifts her and guides her legs around his hips astonishes her. Somehow, he holds her firm without squeezing her belly, moving slow but purposefully inside of her.

Emma clings to him, hands gripping his shirt collar, until he cries out and shudders in her arms, hips jerking, forehead pressed to her neck.

“TEN!” The bar shouts in unison, so loud that Emma feels the door vibrate against her back. “NINE!”

“Shit,” she gasps, “We gotta go!”

They clean up hurriedly and race back into the bar, just in time to scream “HAPPY NEW YEAR!” and then swoop down on Ian and kiss him on either cheek. He scrunches his shoulders, giggling, and reaches up to hug their necks. Over his head, Emma and Killian kiss.

“Happy New Year,” Emma whispers.

“Happy New Year, love.”

\---

That night, Emma dreams that she’s in the room full of fire.

She’s used to it by now, and stands with her elbows tucked in until Ian shows up.

He does, after a minute, yawning.

“Hi,” he greets her.

“Hey, kid. Ready?”

“Yup.”

He takes her hand, and the scene shifts, from the room full of fire to the frozen lake—but they’re there only a moment, a flash of white and gray and a brief, winking golden light from beneath the ice before they’re back at home, standing in Emma and Killian’s bedroom.

It’s odd to be in two places at once, to see herself from the outside, lying in bed with her hair all over the place and one ankle hooked over Killian’s calf, but she’s getting used to that, too.

“Thanks, kid.” She leans down and kisses Ian on the cheek, giving his hand a squeeze as she does. “Go right to bed, okay?”

He smiles at her, then trots away. She knows he actually will go straight to bed this time, exhausted from such a late night.

Emma walks up to her body, and does the weird thing where she falls back into herself—she wakes up briefly, just enough to register what happened, then she rolls over, snuggles into Killian’s side, and surrenders to sleep.

\---

The next morning, Emma wakes to find Killian staring at her blearily.

“I don’t remember getting home,” he rasps.

“No?”

He frowns. “No.”

It’s probably for the best; he was singing sea shanties as David and Robin half-carried him into the house and up to the bedroom, and after they dumped him on the bed he started reciting love poetry to Emma while they stripped him down to his jeans.

Emma has no idea how David and Robin managed to keep straight faces.

“Did you have a good time?” she asks, quietly because Killian’s squinting like he’s in pain.

“I think so. Did I…Swan, did I fall down?”

“No. Why?”

He closes his eyes and turns his face into his pillow. “My head’s pounding.”

“That’s probably the hangover,” she says, stroking his temple. “I’ll get you some aspirin.”

Killian rolls onto his back and pulls his pillow completely over his face, muttering what sounds like a stream of curses into it.

Emma slides out from beneath the covers and stands. She takes one step towards the bathroom but freezes as a spasm rips down her right side near her hip.

A hiss slips through her teeth.

“Swan? What is it?”

Emma squeezes her eyes shut and bites down on the groan rising up her throat.

“Emma?” Killian demands, alarmed.

“It’s fine, it’s fine,” she says. “It’s just-” She pauses, hand clamped over her right side. “It’s just the—_ahhhhh_—the ligament thing.”

“Are you certain?” He’s out of bed, standing at her side, his voice in her ear.

“Yea. I think I just stood up too fast. Give it a minute.” She focuses on breathing for another few seconds, until the pain begins to fade. When she can, she looks up at Killian and gives him a smile. “Welcome to the 2nd trimester.”

His face is tight with worry. “I’ll get the aspirin, love. You lay down.”

He touches her back lightly, trying to guide her towards the bed.

“Actually, it’s better if I walk.” As politely as possible, she shrugs off his hand.

Killian regards her skeptically, but he lets her go, and he even lets her shove him back down onto the mattress.

When she reaches the bathroom door she stops and turns. “Happy birthday, Killian.”

From beneath the pillow he already replaced over his head, he murmurs, “Thank you, love.”

\---

By the time the boys wake up, the aspirin’s kicked in and Killian’s functional again—double bonus, the boys insist on cooking breakfast for him, so he gets to sit in his reading nook with his eyes closed and a coffee cup cradled in his lap.

The boys surrounded him the moment he stepped into the kitchen, requesting to know how old he is and guessing increasingly absurd numbers, until they grew too loud and Killian flinched.

They gave him his space after that, except for every now and then when Ian darts away from the stove to whisper, “_Happy birthday_,” delicately in Killian’s ear.

Killian smiles whenever he does, and mutters something in return.

Emma’s setting the table, placing plates and silverware beside the small pile of birthday gifts, when another spasm tears along her pelvis on both sides.

She drops the knives. “_Ahhhhh_. Fuck. Goddammit.” The pain is sharper than before, forcing her to double over, both hands clamped below her belly.

“Mom?”

“Emma?”

A high-pitched groan and a gasp is all she can muster in response.

She hears Killian’s coffee cup hit the floor, thinks distantly to herself that he makes more messes in her front room than Ian does, and then he’s there, one arm around her back and his hand with hers on her belly.

“I’m fine,” she says, through gritted teeth.

Ian’s bare feet dance into view, skipping nervously along the tiles. “Is it the baby? Is the baby coming?”

“Mom? Mom? Are you okay?”

And there’s Henry. Emma feels like a goddamn zoo animal.

“I’m _fine_,” she repeats, and straightens.

She convinces them to resume their breakfast preparations, but she agrees to sit down, and soon they’re all gathered at the table, piled high with plates full of eggs cooked three different ways, sausage _and_ bacon, hash-browns, and toast.

Ian insists that Killian open his gifts while they eat. Killian obeys, starting, as Ian suggested, with the largest gift.

It’s from Emma, and Killian’s gaze turns soft when he tears off the paper to reveal a photo album.

“It’s pretty much every picture you’re ever taken with me, Henry, and Ian since June,” Emma explains. She went through everyone’s phones—hers, Killian’s, Henry’s, and even her parents’—to find all the relevant photos and print them.

“Thank you, Emma. This is…” He flips a page and chuckles at the photos he and Ian took the night Killian got his cellphone, a series of snapshots of their faces squished into one frame, cheeks puffed, eyes crossed, tongues stuck out—you name it, they pulled it.

“You’re wel-” She snaps her teeth shut as another jolt of pain startles her. She closes her eyes and bears down, praying for it to end.

Killian’s fork clatters against his plate and his chair scrapes the floor.

“We’re going to the hospital, love,” he booms.

This time, Emma doesn’t protest.

\---

The pain doesn’t return on the drive to the hospital, but the echoes of it throbbing down her sides is reminder enough.

Emma’s been in labor before so she knows this isn’t that, and while she’s never had a miscarriage before either she’s also pretty sure that this isn’t a miscarriage.

At least, she hopes it’s not—but it’s the little bit of fear that maybe it _is_ a miscarriage that keeps her from telling Killian to turn the car around and go home, false alarm, everything’s fine.

The emergency room is surprisingly vacant; Emma’s whisked upstairs immediately to an examination room with an ultrasound machine.

Unfortunately, Whale is the only one on duty qualified to use it.

It’s not her favorite, but Emma would let a cactus give her an ultrasound right now, so she lays on the examination table with her t-shirt pushed up to her boobs, suppressing a wince while Whale rubs cold jelly onto her bare stomach.

Killian’s watching Whale’s every movement with terrified eyes, the muscles in his jaw clenching spasmodically, his hand like a vise on hers. Emma’s not sure if he’s even breathing.

“Alright, here we go,” says Whale, with a tenderness that Emma didn’t think he was capable of.

It takes a moment for the image on the screen to resolve, for Emma to understand what she’s looking at—and when she does, hot tears sting her eyes.

The baby’s there, and she’s moving.

_She_, Emma thinks; it’s the first time she’s been able to do that, to look at the sonogram and tell herself, _That’s our daughter. Our little Bean’s a girl._

Killian lets out a breath that sounds like a suppressed sob, swallows, and asks hoarsely, “Can you feel any of that, love?”

“No,” Emma says, watching the Bean kick her legs back and forth like she’s on a trampoline. She tightens her hand on Killian’s and strokes her thumb along his knuckles.

It’s kind of incredible, what an ultrasound can show you—the outline of the baby’s forehead, nose, and lips, her tiny fist tucked beneath her chin…

It takes Emma too long to realize that Whale’s gaping at the screen with his mouth open.

“What’s wrong?” she asks.

Killian head whips around, eyes flicking from the screen to Whale’s face.

Whale licks his lips. “It…” He pauses, brow knitting.

“_What?”_

Whale sets the transducer aside and reaches for her file, flipping through the papers inside hastily.

“Whale, what is it?”

“Answer us!”

Finally, he closes the manila folder and rests it on his thigh. “When you were here two weeks ago, we measured the fetus at 10 weeks.”

“Right,” Emma agrees haltingly. After Killian woke her from the Sleeping Curse and they resigned themselves to the fact that they weren’t escaping Storybrooke, they rushed to the hospital to check on the baby—it was declared that the Bean was healthy and seemingly unaffected by the Sleeping Curse.

“What I’m seeing on the screen _now_,” Whale says, “is what I’d expect to see on a scan at 15 weeks.”

“15 weeks?” Emma repeats, dumbfounded.

“How is that possible?” Killian asks.

“I don’t know,” Whale admits. “But in the space of two weeks, your pregnancy has progressed twice the rate it should have.” He takes a deep breath. “I think…I think you may have a problem.”


	21. Chapter 21

Killian’s numb. He’s been numb since Whale’s announcement.

He’s sitting on a chair in the hospital beside the bed Emma’s laying on, holding two sonograms side-by-side, the one from today, and the one from two weeks ago.

He can’t believe he didn’t notice what Whale did; he supposes he was too relieved to see the Bean moving to realize there was something odd. Looking at the two scans now, the difference is obvious.

Two weeks ago, the Bean was a blob—baby-_shaped_, but still with nubby appendages and an overlarge head. Today the Bean looks like an actual baby. Rationally, Killian knows she’s still only the size of an orange and that her proportions aren’t _quite_ right yet, but she looks as if she could be born any day now.

_Well, perhaps not…_

They still have roughly 3 months to go.

(An entire 3 months fewer than they should have had.)

Whale calculated a new due date, estimated Emma to reach 40 weeks by the beginning of April so long as her pregnancy doesn’t accelerate further.

_Aries_, Killian thinks. _The Bean will be an Aries._

That fits with what Killian saw of her when he and Emma touched the unicorn horn.

“How did this happen?”

David’s voice pulls Killian out of his thoughts. The answer is obvious, and from beside him, Emma responds, “The Black Fairy.”

She’s in a sitting position, but she has her head leaned back on the pillows and her eyes closed; her hands are in her lap, cupping her belly. The nurses drew an unfeasible amount of blood from her to run tests on, and she’s still lethargic.

“It must have been while I was under the Sleeping Curse. I didn’t feel her do anything, but I know she was there the whole time. She kept talking to me.”

Emma told Killian what the Black Fairy said, how excited she was about both Ian’s and the baby’s magic.

_A storm, and fire._

It makes Killian’s guts twist, half in revulsion, half in anger.

“And you didn’t feel…different or anything after you woke up?” Snow asks gently.

“Not _different_,” Emma says. “Just hungry.”

Regina arcs a brow. “Hungry?”

“Yea. Super hungry. I thought it was because my morning sickness finally stopped.”

“And you didn’t think it was odd that your morning sickness stopped so abruptly after you awoke from a Sleeping Curse?”

“Regina,” Snow says, “if you’d ever experienced morning sickness you’d understand why you don’t question that sort of thing. You just thank your lucky stars and pray it doesn’t start up again.”

David smiles at his wife, and Killian feels a pang of sympathy for them—Killian may have missed out on most of Ian’s life so far, but Ian’s only 6 and there’s still so much ahead that Killian _will_ be here for, and on top of that there’s the Bean, a chance to experience what he missed with Ian.

Snow and David lost everything. They _could_ start over, but Killian knows they won’t—they had an opportunity to do so 7 years ago and chose otherwise. He can’t fathom the strength it took to accept a situation like that and move forward with grace and optimism.

Although, maybe he _does_ understand; it’s only hope that prevented his drinking himself into an early grave, the hope that someday, somehow, he’d be able to see Emma again.

Perhaps that’s what sustained Snow and David as well.

“Plus,” Emma adds, drawing Killian once more from his thoughts, “we went to the doctor right after I woke up and they said everything was fine. There was no reason not to believe that.”

_No reason other than we wanted to believe we were safe for the moment._

How naïve of them.

Killian passes the sonograms to David, then addresses Regina. “Is there anything you can do to reverse what the Black Fairy did?”

“Not without knowing exactly _how_ she did it,” Regina replies. “And not without significant risk to the fetus.”

“Baby,” Emma mumbles.

Regina’s eyebrow lurches upwards again. “What?”

“Don’t say ‘fetus’—it makes me feel like she’s a science experiment. Say ‘baby’.”

Killian sees her hands tighten around her belly, cradling the bandages underneath her hospital gown that mark the locations where needles were inserted through her skin to take samples directly from her womb.

“Oh.” Regina sighs through her nose, and Killian thinks he actually hears a note of pity in her voice when she amends herself. “What I’m saying is that it’s probably safer for the baby if things remain as they are.”

“So, we’re stuck?” Killian asks.

“Basically, yes. If the baby hasn’t been harmed by the accelerated pregnancy thus far then I believe it’s safe to assume that she wasn’t _meant_ to be harmed. I think you should just…” Here, her lips twist in a smile. “Thank your lucky stars and pray that we come up with a way to defeat the Black Fairy before she comes back.”

_Which will likely be a lot sooner now than we originally anticipated._

He’s trying to focus on the positives: the baby is fine, and aside from being 2-3 more weeks pregnant than she should be, so is Emma. She won’t be pregnant during the hot summer months—which Killian knows she was dreading—and the baby might even be aware enough to enjoy the beach this year—here he imagines himself carrying her into ocean and holding her just above the water so that the waves tickle her feet—and…

And they’ll get to _meet_ her sooner.

That fierce blonde lass with the sea green eyes.

The daughter he’s already completely gone for, as Emma might say.

“What about the unicorn horn?” he wonders.

Emma still has her head tipped back and her eyes closed. “What do you mean?”

“Should we…use it again? Make sure what we saw a week ago is still there?”

“No.”

“Really, love?”

She opens her eyes then and turns her face toward him. “Right now I’m scared and angry, and I think I need to stay that way.” He understands what she means, even before she adds, “I don’t want to be comforted. I want to feel like I have to fight my ass off or I’ll lose everything.”

_Because losing everything is still a possibility._

Seeing their daughter alive and healthy in the future is no guarantee; if they don’t do what needs to be done now, that future won’t come true.

“We won’t fail her,” Killian promises.

He places his hand on Emma’s belly, and Emma shifts her own hands so they’re covering his.

“We’d better not,” she whispers.

Killian flexes his fingertips, reiterating his vow, trying to communicate it through touch alone to the Bean—she can’t hear his voice yet, though that’s only a week or two away at this point.

“Ooh!" Snow gasps suddenly. “Emma! We’ll have to move your baby shower sooner!”

Emma’s brow crinkles and she shifts her attention from Killian to her mother. “Sooner? Did you plan it already?”

“Yes—well…yes.”

“Mom.”

“I’m serious, Emma. I booked the auditorium for May because I thought it would be nicer to have it when the weather’s good again but that’s way too late now.”

“You booked the _auditorium_?”

“Yes. Obviously we’ll need the space.”

“For what?”

“For the guests. And the gifts. And some games of course, to keep the kids entertained.”

“You’re not throwing an indoor carnival for my baby shower are you?”

“No, not a _carnival_-”

“Dad,” Emma pleads.

David raises both hands in what’s clearly a gesture of surrender when a knock on the door interrupts. “I’ll get it,” he volunteers, leaping from his chair with a swiftness Killian wasn’t aware David was capable of.

It’s Will, Henry, and Ian, all wearing worried frowns. Ian’s astride Will’s shoulders, and Will has to duck down to nearly half his height in order to pass safely through the doorway.

“MOM!” Ian half-shouts.

“Hey, kid,” Emma returns with a wan smile.

Will staggers and nearly crumples as Ian scrambles down from his shoulders, shimmying to the floor like a bear cub descending a tree and then pushing past Henry to race for Emma. Killian catches him around the middle just as he reaches the bed.

“Easy, lad,” he warns, even as Ian strains against his arm.

“The baby’s not here?” Ian asks, and unless Killian’s ears are deceiving him, Ian actually sounds disappointed.

“No,” Emma replies. “She’s not coming until April.”

“She’s gotta stay in your tummy all the way until April?”

“Yep. All the way until April.”

Killian hears the amusement in her voice, sees the grin tugging at her lips.

“April?” Henry says. “I thought-”

“How come we have to wait so long?” Ian demands.

“For what?”

“For the baby.”

Emma’s eyes flick to Killian’s, the smile spreading across her face radiant, banishing the gloom that dimmed her features mere seconds before; she opens her arms, and Killian lets Ian loose.

“Well,” Emma explains, as Ian climbs onto the bed and slips into her embrace, “the baby’s really small right now. We have to wait for her to grow and get bigger.”

“How big?”

“Like, the size of a baby big.”

“Like Gideon?”

“No.” Emma’s cheeks pale in horror. “Not that big.”

“Oh. How big is she now?”

“About the size of an orange.”

Ian frowns. “That’s not very big.”

“Nope. That’s why we have to wait until April. So she can get bigger.”

Ian’s frown deepens, a crease like a canyon emerging between his brows, and Killian understands with sudden clarity that there will be many more questions about how babies work later on.

Emma must get it too, because she looks at Killian then with an expression that plainly says, _Not it_.

\---

Killian doesn’t feel much like celebrating his birthday anymore, but everyone insists, especially Emma, so after she’s discharged they drive to Granny’s for dinner.

Over burgers and fries, they resume their conversation about the baby shower.

“It should be pink,” Snow declares.

Ian wrinkles his nose. “Why?”

“Because she’s a girl.”

“So?”

“Girls like pink.”

“Not all of them,” Ian argues knowingly. “A lot of girls in my class like blue, and my art teacher says that there’s no such thing as boy colors and girl colors.”

Killian hides a smile behind his milkshake—the milkshake Ian insisted he order because it had the word “birthday” in it; Emma, tucked against his side with his arm around her shoulders, dips one of her fries in it before it even reaches his lips.

Snow drops her chin into her hand and gives Ian her indulgent-teacher smile. “What color do you think we should do then?” she asks.

“Rainbow,” Ian says, as if it’s obvious.

“Why rainbow?”

“Because a rainbow has all the colors.”

“Okay, we’ll do rainbow then.”

When their plates are cleared away, Granny appears at their table.

Hands on her hips, she scrutinizes them over the rims of her glasses. “Dessert?”

“Yes!” Ian crows.

“No!” Henry scolds him. “We made a cake. Remember?”

“Oh,” Ian says, then, “_Ohhh_,” again, but whinier and with a pouty, full-body slump.

“Ice cream?” Granny offers instead, though it seems more like a command than a question.

“Yes,” Emma agrees.

“Me too!” Ian pipes, despite Henry’s glare.

“Two ice creams, then,” Granny says.

Will’s hand shoots into the air. “Make it three!”

Granny’s voice is like acid. “Scarlet, you’re banned from eating ice cream in my restaurant.”

“What? Why?”

“You know why.”

Will blushes furiously and drops his gaze to the table.

“Oh, by the way,” Granny says. “I heard you two are having a girl.” The word ‘_Thanks’_ is on the tip of Killian’s tongue, until Granny adds, “You should name her Poppy.”

“Poppy?” Emma repeats, blankly.

“Yes.”

“_Poppy is Granny’s name_,” Will hisses, helpfully.

“Poppy or Rose,” Granny continues, ignoring Will. “Rose was my daughter’s name.”

“And if we’re sticking with a “red” theme,” Will says, “There’s also ‘Scarlet’. That one_ is_ a girl’s name. I looked it up.”

“I think you should name her after a pirate,” Henry advises.

“Yes!” Ian seconds, vehemently.

Snow leans forward. “Or her _grandmother_.”

“Or her great-grandmother,” David proposes.

“Either of her great-grandmothers.”

“Or _both_ of them.”

The debate endures all the way back to the house. Ian and Henry bolt out of the SUV as soon as Killian parks and race into the house to get the cake ready; Will parks the Bug behind them and goes after the boys—Killian hopes to ensure that Ian doesn’t get to the lighter first.

Snow and David meander arm-in-arm up the sidewalk, still teasing each other about _Ruth_ versus _Ava_ as names for their future granddaughter.

Emma leans on Killian as they walk from the car to the house. They take their time, more to savor a minute of privacy than anything else, and when they reach the porch they stop and Emma turns into his arms.

Killian buries his hand in her hair, clutching her tightly, resting his cheek on top of her head.

“It’ll be all right, love,” he murmurs.

She nods against his chest. “I love you, Killian.”

“And I love you, Swan.” He drops his hand to her waist, finding her belly, left exposed by her unzipped coat, and brushes his fingers against the curve beneath her sweater. “You and our little Beanstalk.”

She jerks her face away from his jacket. “_Beanstalk?_”

“Aye, because she’s growing so fast now.”

Emma snorts, incredulously, and then she laughs.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing, I just…” She rests her face against his chest again. “Back then—on the beanstalk—I just never would have guessed that we’d end up here.”

“With a little magic bean in your belly?”

“_Your_ little magic bean.”

He tightens his arms around her waist. “Our Bean, Swan.”

_The little Bean I’m going to make the Black Fairy regret she ever threatened_.

She nuzzles her face into his shirt. “I won’t lose this, Killian,” she says. “I don’t want to sound childish, but I think this—you, Henry and Ian and the baby, here, in Storybrooke—I think this is my happy ending.”

Killian chuckles.

Emma stiffens. “What’re you laughing at?” she bristles.

Killian ducks his head to place a soothing kiss on the tip of her nose. “It’s just that I’ve known this is my happy ending for quite some time, love.”

“Oh.” She exhales heavily and melts into him. “I probably don’t say this enough—I don’t actually know if I’ve _ever_ said it, but…I’m glad we found each other.”

“Me too.” He doesn’t believe in destiny, but he believes in True Love—in his and Emma’s love—and he believes that they were always meant to find each other again, one way or another.

The front door opens, and Henry steps onto the porch—he’s apparently so used to walking in on Emma and Killian in the midst of intimacy that he doesn’t even blink at the sight of them practically intertwined on the doorstep.

“We can’t find the birthday candles,” he says. “Should I run to the store and get some?”

“No,” says Killian, who purposely hid the birthday candles that very morning. “Let’s just cut the cake. We can skip all that singing nonsense.”

Henry frowns. “I don’t think-”

“It’s fine,” Killian assures him, and ushers the boy back into the house, Emma on his heels.

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY!” is shouted at him from the kitchen, where Ian, Will, David, and Snow are gathered around the table, atop of which is Killian’s cake. It’s a 3-layered, chocolate monstrosity, slightly lopsided, with extremely lumpy frosting and “300” spelled out in sour gummy worms leftover from the gingerbread houses on top.

“What’s the 300 for?” Killian dares to inquire, already suspecting the answer.

“That’s how old you are,” Ian chirps with complete innocence, while behind him Henry smirks wickedly.

“Wow, you look good for 300,” David comments.

“I’m _not_ 300,” Killian growls, tipping his chin up defiantly. “I’m 192.”

“How old are you_ physically_?”

“I don’t know,” Killian sighs, recalling having a similar conversation with Emma on _her_ birthday. “I think technically I just turned 38. Maybe 39.”

David blinks in surprise. “Wait, you’re younger than me?”

“How old are _you_?” Emma asks him.

“41,” David grumbles, then he grins. “Your mother’s 42.”

“David!” Snow chides, slapping him on the arm.

David flinches, then turns his grin on Will. “_You’re_ not secretly a 200-year-old in a 25-year-old’s body, are you?”

“No,” Will replies. “And I’m 24, by the way.”

Emma rounds on him, eyes narrowed. “You told me you were 23.”

“And when I told you that I _was_ 23\. Then I had a birthday. Now I’m 24.”

“When’s your birthday?”

“December.”

“December _what_?”

Will has the grace to flinch. “December, uh, 13th.”

“You should have told us,” Killian says, loudly and because he’s afraid Emma might actually fly across the kitchen and strangle poor Will, so intensely is she glowering at him.

Will shrugs, but Killian sees him gulp.

Killian looks to Ian. “I think you should make a 24 below that 300.”

Ian nods dutifully and trots to the counter to fetch the package of sour gummy worms.

To Henry, Killian says, “The birthday candles are underneath the sink, inside the S.O.S box.”

Henry rolls his eyes and huffs, “I knew it.”

Killian endures a round of ‘Happy Birthday’ sung in his honor, but only because after he blows out the candles they’re promptly relit and they begin singing again, this time for Will.

The candles have just been extinguished for a second time when someone knocks on the door. It’s Sarah and the Apprentice, and the Apprentice has a stack of books in his arms that reaches all the way to his chin.

“I found what we need to defeat the Black Fairy,” he says.

Killian turns to Emma, and after a moment her eyes find his, and she nods.

\---

Once the cake is returned to the refrigerator, they all settle in the front room.

By unspoken agreement Emma and Killian permit Ian to remain with them, knowing he’ll find a way to eavesdrop if they don’t, and Ian decides that, as the person whose birthday it is, it’s Killian’s great privilege to allow Ian to sit in his lap.

He reclines against Killian’s chest, head on his shoulder, both his hands resting on Killian’s hook which Killian has braced around Ian’s stomach. On Killian’s left is Henry, perched on the arm of the sofa, and on Killian’s right is Emma, one hand laced with his, her free hand fiddling with the knotted red bracelet on his wrist.

The others are scattered around the front room on various chairs and couches, but David stands and paces like a sentry, his arms folded over his chest, gaze locked on the Apprentice

“I don’t have all the answers yet,” the Apprentice is muttering as he arranges the books he brought on the coffee table, “but I thought that perhaps—given what you just discovered—this might bring you some hope—or perhaps just help distract you…”

The Apprentice steps back and lets Sarah guide him to a chair, lest he absentmindedly try to sit down in midair. When seated, he inhales deeply and begins.

“Before I tell you what I found, I want to say that—as of now—I think we have an advantage.”

David halts. “What advantage?”

“The Black Fairy doesn’t seem to be aware of the prophecies—or, she at least doesn’t seem to make the connection between Emma and the prophecies.”

“How is that an advantage?” Killian asks.

“Well, for one, if she believed Emma to be the one from the prophecies then she would have killed her and your children immediately.”

Nausea rises up Killian’s throat. Emma’s hand squeezes his; he squeezes back and focuses, focuses on the feel of her fingers and her warm skin, focuses on the weight of Ian’s head on his shoulder.

“Secondly,” the Apprentice continues. “Since she’s unaware of the prophecies, she won’t be expecting Emma’s full power—she hasn’t witnessed it yet.” He looks at Emma, one corner of his mouth lifting in a savage smile. “So when the time does come for the Final Battle, she’ll be underestimating you.”

“I guess I really need to start training again then, huh?” Emma says.

The Apprentice’s eyes twinkle merrily. “I was hoping you’d come to that conclusion.”

Emma breathes out a laugh, then she shifts, straightening. “Alright, tell me what you found. How are we going to defeat the Black Fairy?”

Her tone is brisk, business-like, and it heartens Killian, loosens the knot beneath his ribs.

The Apprentice reaches for one of the books on the table and flips it open, revealing two pages of hand-written notes surrounding an illustration of a sword.

Everyone in the room leans forward simultaneously. Killian examines the writing first—the Apprentice was correct, it’s absolute gibberish—before considering the drawing.

“A sword?” Emma asks. “_That’s_ how I’m going to defeat the Black Fairy?”

“This isn’t just a sword,” the Apprentice asserts, finger tapping the page. “This is Excalibur.”

_Excalibur_.

The name whispers through Killian’s mind, the stuff of legends, stories that awed him as a child, a tapestry of tales Liam wove for him from his own memory to comfort them both while they huddled together in their bunk aboard Captain Silver’s ship.

“No way!” Henry gushes. “It’s real?”

The Apprentice nods. “It was given to my master by the Lady of the Lake.”

“I thought the Lady of the Lake gave it to Arthur?”

“_I_ gave it to Arthur, after Merlin’s battle with the Black Fairy—this is what he used to fight her. Look closer; do you recognize it?”

Ian slips from his lap to the floor and Henry kneels next to him, craning over the book; over their heads, Killian inspects the illustration.

The hilt of the sword appears to be of the same steel as the blade, with an enormous ruby set in the pommel and a filigreed grip and cross-guard. The blade itself is straight for nearly a foot, and then it becomes…_wavy_.

Killian blinks. The designs etched into the metal of the blade…he recognizes them immediately.

“The Dark One’s dagger,” he murmurs.

Emma gasps sharply. “_Holy shit_.”

“Excalibur broke in battle,” the Apprentice says, “but Merlin was able to trap the Black Fairy and her magic inside that urn and then use the broken piece of the sword to bind the bit of Darkness that was left behind.”

Henry sits back on his heels. “Uh, quick question: what happened to Merlin?”

“He…” The Apprentice bows his head and wrings his hands. “In order to ensure that the Darkness would never be reunited with the Black Fairy, Merlin…absorbed it.”

“_Merlin_ was the first Dark One?”

“Yes.”

“Who killed him?” Snow asks.

“His lover at the time, Nimue.”

Killian’s never heard the name before, and judging by the expressions of the others in the room, neither has anyone else.

Ian speaks then, golden head still bent over Merlin’s journal. “How can you use the sword if it’s broken?”

“That’s one of our problems,” the Apprentice confesses. “One that I have not yet found a solution to. Excalibur must be made whole again. It is useless to us broken.”

Emma sighs and massages her temples. “Alright, well, we have the dagger. Where’s the other piece of Excalibur?”

The Apprentice grimaces. “That’s our second problem. The rest of Excalibur is in Camelot. Back with the Lady of the Lake to be exact.”

“_Of course it is_,” Emma growls under her breath.

Just as the Apprentice reaches for another book on the table and opens it, there’s a knock on the front door.

“I got it,” David says. “It’s probably Regina—someone called her, right?”

“Yes,” Sarah replies. “I did.”

But it’s not Regina waiting on their doorstep in the dark, it’s Liam.

“Hi,” he says tentatively.

Brows raised, David looks to Killian, who’s trying not to show his surprise.

“Come in,” he says quickly, rising from the couch meet Liam in the entryway.

Liam ducks past David, eyes averted.

_He’s shy_, Killian realizes, as David closes the door behind him and then folds his arms over his chest and _looms._

“I… I just wanted to say-” Liam starts, but pauses, gaze flickering around the room. “Is…this a bad time?”

“Actually, yes,” Killian admits. “I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s okay. I can, uh…”

“Why don’t we meet for lunch tomorrow?” Killian offers. It’s something Snow would say—something Snow has actually suggested that Killian do, and until Liam showed up at the bar last night, it was something Killian wasn’t sure Liam would agree to.

Liam blinks. “Oh, uh…okay.” The corner of his mouth lifts in the barest smile. “I’d like that.”

Killian nods, then—uncomfortably aware that he’s being brisk—gestures towards the door. “I’ll walk you out.”

David steps aside and returns to the front room reluctantly—his wife may be advocating for a reconciliation between Killian and his brother, but David only cautiously accepts Liam’s presence.

Outside, Killian gulps down a lungful of fresh air. Idly, he realizes the conditions were similar the night he first met Liam—his front porch on a dark, cold night—and he just barely resists the urge to scratch at the scar on his neck from Liam's knife. “I apologize for David,” he tells Liam. “He can be…protective.” The kind of protective that Killian hasn’t felt since the elder Liam died. “And I’m sorry again that you can’t stay.”

Liam, hands clasped behind his back, shrugs. “It’s fine.” Killian feels the man watching him out of the corner of his eye for a few seconds before he says, “If you don’t mind my asking…is everything okay?”

Killian exhales slowly. “No, things aren’t okay.” He scowls, then shakes his head. “It’s a long story.”

“Does it have anything to do with the sorceress that trapped us all in this town?”

“Yes.” Killian slips his hand into the warmth of his jeans pocket, a voice in the back of his head telling him he’s gone soft if the cold is getting to him so quickly. He stares out at the street for a moment, at the mounds of snow gathered against the curb and bracketing the sidewalks, glowing yellow and orange in the streetlights, then he looks back at Liam. “I’m sorry, I never asked why you came. Is everything okay with you?”

He wonders briefly if Liam’s there for _Will_; he saw the glances Liam was throwing in Will’s direction at the bar, and he heard what were several earnest but clumsy attempts to flirt.

Will seemed to ignore it, for the most part, though Killian doesn’t think it’s a matter of sexual preference—most of Will’s admirers are women, but Killian’s witnessed a fair amount of men try their hand at wooing him.

“I came to tell you ‘happy birthday’,” Liam says.

“Ah.”

Killian was shocked when Liam walked into The Crow’s Nest last night, having seen neither hide nor hair of the man for two full weeks.

(Later, he learned that Henry invited him.)

“You didn’t have to,” Killian mutters. “You told me happy birthday last night.”

“Yes, but today is your actual birthday.”

“It is, and…thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Nemo wanted me to tell you happy birthday as well.”

“Then please also tell Nemo that I said thank you.” That reminds Killian abruptly of something Snow and David mentioned on Christmas. “How’s Misthaven treating you?”

Liam’s face goes carefully blank, and Killian fears he offended him before, finally, he quietly says, “I’m not…good with children.”

Killian’s chuckle is fortuitously drowned out by the sound of Regina’s car door slamming.

Liam watches her approach. “I should go.”

“Lunch tomorrow?” Killian prompts. “How about noon at Granny’s?”

Liam hesitates, as though he’s already forgotten—or perhaps because he didn’t believe Killian’s offer was genuine—then smiles. “See you then.”

Regina glares at Liam as they pass each other on the sidewalk, then she directs her glare at Killian. “What’s going on?”

“You’ll see inside.” Killian holds the front door open for her, and then follows her into the house.

Killian’s toeing off his boots when Emma lets out a laugh. She flips the book she’s holding around, showing a page with an illustration of a lake with a large weeping willow hanging over it, its branches trailing into the water. As Killian enters the front room and moves closer, he sees that the lake looks frozen, but despite this there’s a hand holding a sword thrust through the ice.

Grinning triumphantly, Emma exclaims, “I know where Excalibur is!”


	22. Chapter 22

Emma’s a little disappointed to discover that knowing where to _find_ Excalibur isn’t actually enough to _get_ Excalibur.

She thought she’d be able to just…_ask_ for it, but either the Lady of the Lake isn’t home, or she’s there but she’s ignoring Emma—which seems pretty rude, especially if she’s the reason Emma and Ian keep ending up there in the first place.

(Or maybe Excalibur’s the reason and Excalibur’s the one ignoring them.)

(Which, again, is _rude_.)

On Wednesday night, Ian takes them to the lake—or the lake pulls them there, whatever—and they tiptoe out to where that winking golden light is beckoning, only when they reach it and Emma ventures a cautious, “Hello?” the only response is the light, now a faint glow from beneath the surface of the ice—so faint that Emma guesses it’s at the bottom of the lake and the lake is very deep.

She tries using her magic, tries reaching for that sparkly little mountain spring at her center so she can reach for Excalibur with it, but it’s not there.

Because, technically, Emma’s not there.

(Not all of her, at least.)

So they retreat and Emma wakes up on Thursday morning tired and annoyed.

Killian’s not surprised when she informs him that her and Ian’s first attempt at Excalibur was a bust—although the very obvious lack of a giant sword in their bed probably gave it away.

“We’ll try again tonight, love,” he says, but there’s a strange, strained look in his eyes, and the thumb he swipes gently along her cheek is trembling.

He doesn’t like sending her and Ian alone on what might be a dangerous mission.

He doesn’t like that he can’t go with, that he can’t help.

That he can’t_ protect_ them.

(From everything.)

Emma catches his fingers and presses them more firmly against her cheek, turns her face to plant a kiss against his palm.

“What time is it?” she murmurs.

“It’s nearly 8.”

“So Ian isn’t up yet.”

“No, he isn’t,” Killian agrees, tone deepening as he catches her meaning.

He moves closer and kisses her. Emma’s hands find his chest and she caresses the thatch of hair there, fingers moving in time with the slow, gentle rhythm of her and Killian’s lips. His warm, feather-light touch drifts down her neck and over her shoulder, along her ribs, but when he reaches her belly he freezes.

“Is it…are you…?” he whispers, eyes wide, a paler shade than usual in the early morning light.

“It’s okay,” she says.

It feels like their first time after he found out she was pregnant all over again, when he was afraid he would hurt her or the baby.

She takes his hand and presses it more firmly against the curve of her stomach.

“See?”

It’s not suddenly more delicate than it was before, it’s not a bomb about to go off; it’s just a baby growing twice as fast as she’s supposed to and a womb that’s a bit unhappy about it but handling it anyway.

And Emma’s not gonna let the Black Fairy suck the joy out of this pregnancy.

She tries to shift closer, tries to slide her knee between Killian’s thighs, but the movement is too abrupt and a spasm rips down the left side of her pelvis. She jolts and then curls forward, hissing out a string of curses through her clenched teeth.

“_Ahhhhh, shit. Ah, mother-fffffff…_” Her voice gets embarrassingly high-pitched at the end, at which point she sucks in a deep breath and rolls to her feet.

“Emma? What can I do, love?”

“Nothing. Just…distract me,” she grunts, and—jaw clenched, hand pressed to her side—she starts pacing the bedroom.

After a moment, Killian says, “She can hiccup now.”

_She_.

Emma smiles, loving that every day the Bean’s becoming less of an abstract “the baby” and more of a person, their little girl.

“What else?” Emma asks.

“She can swallow. Curl her toes. Kick her legs, as we saw—you really can’t feel that?”

“Nope. Not yet.”

Emma opens her eyes; Killian’s perched on the edge of the mattress, shirtless, hair tousled, his hand and blunted wrist resting in his lap.

He smiles at her. “She’ll be able to hear our voices soon.”

“I know.” Emma rubs her hipbone, where the pain is finally fading. “Have you picked out your playlist yet?”

“Playlist?”

“Yea, the songs you’re going to sing to her.”

Killian’s grin grows, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Perhaps.”

“Are you only going to sing to her when I’m asleep?”

“I already sing to her when you’re asleep.”

Emma clicks her tongue. “That’s not fair.”

“Why?”

“Because I wanna hear you sing too.”

His cheeks flush, and Emma suddenly understands _why_ he waits until she’s asleep to sing to the baby—but before she can apologize and tell him that he doesn’t _have_ to sing in front of her he’s up off the bed and pulling her into his arms, his hand tangling with hers and his other arm circling her waist; Emma thinks he’s just hugging her, but then slowly he begins to move.

To _dance_.

It takes her a second to understand, to get the sway of her body to match his and to figure out where to put her feet, and when she finds her rhythm—_their_ rhythm—he clutches her even closer, dips his head, and presses his cheek to hers.

The tune he hums in her ear starts in his chest, and she feels it vibrating through both their bodies before she hears it; it’s not a tune she’s familiar with, but it has a sound she knows, a sound similar to the sea shanties Killian sang when he was drunk, only slower, softer, and she doesn’t need to know the words to know that it’s a love song.

“Is this one for me or the Bean?” she asks quietly.

“For you.”

She feels his lips brush her cheek, his nose nuzzle her hair, and then he’s humming again.

Emma leans into him. She’s never been much for dancing—save for being forced into it on her birthday—but this…this is alright.

\---

After breakfast, they call the Apprentice. He brings a fresh stack of Merlin’s journals to add to the ones he left on their coffee table the previous night, and a box of donuts from Granny’s.

“From Sarah,” he explains, handing Killian the donuts. “She wanted me to tell you that she’s sorry she couldn’t come with.”

“Is everything okay?” Emma asks.

“Yes. She went to the forest to refresh her snowmen.”

“Ah.” Emma knows that Sarah’s snowman sentries require a periodic infusion of her magic to remain functional—that and the local wildlife enjoy stealing the carrots and acorns she uses for their faces. “She didn’t go alone, did she?”

“No, Alec and Little John went with.”

“Ok. Good.”

Killian, Ian on his heels, walks the donuts into the kitchen and sets them on the counter next to Will, who’s washing their breakfast dishes despite Emma and Killian’s protest that he doesn’t have to “earn his keep”. Ian’s hand is in the box before Killian has a chance to properly open it. He pulls out the strawberry-frosted one and then dances away with it, grinning.

“Kitchen table,” Killian orders, waving a napkin at him.

Ian accepts the napkin dejectedly. “But why?”

“Because I don’t want you to get crumbs all over the Apprentice’s books.”

While Emma, Ian, and Henry eat their donuts in the kitchen, Killian settles in the front room with the Apprentice and the journals. When Emma’s finished, she washes her hands and joins them.

“Are we certain the Lady of the Lake is even still alive?” Killian asks. He has one of the new journals open on his knee, and on his other knee, pinned gently beneath his hook, is what looks like a handwritten cipher.

“The very fact that Ian’s drawn to her place of residence is proof that she is,” the Apprentice replies. “The lake is unremarkable otherwise and on its own would not possess the power to attract him.”

Killian hums thoughtfully in response, brow furrowed at the cipher.

This is apparently something of a dream come true for him.

He told Emma that Liam used to tell him stories of King Arthur when they were boys, and that those tales were an immense comfort to him during those first few painful years after their father abandoned them. He said he used to fantasize about a sea nymph rising from the waves and presenting him with Excalibur and then whisking him and Liam away from Silver’s ship to somewhere else, somewhere he and Liam were safe and important and _loved_.

His confession prompted Emma’s own, that she watched _The Sword in the Stone_ as a kid and then spent months hoping that a wizard and his pet owl would knock on the door of the group home and declare he was there for Emma Swan, who was the long lost heir to an enchanted kingdom.

“_You weren’t far off_,” Killian teased.

(She really wasn’t.)

“Maybe the Lady of the Lake is hibernating,” Henry suggests from the kitchen. “Or maybe she, like, swims south for the winter.”

Emma snorts out a laugh but the Apprentice just shakes his head. “No, she’s there.”

“And you think there’s something in these journals that can help us get her attention?” Killian says, glancing from the journal on his knee to Emma.

“I think these journals are, as of now, our best source of information, yes.”

Emma looks at all the books spread out on her coffee table, dread mounting in her chest—Henry was right: as much as she enjoys Harry Potter, she’s _not_ a reader. “Why did Merlin even write all these journals?”

The Apprentice smiles. “I believe he knew that one day they would be of use.”

_To me_, Emma assumes.

She drops her chin into her hand and sighs. “Ok, but why _so many_?”

“He lived for nearly 1,000 years. The journals you see here are only the ones that are relevant to us currently—there are hundreds more that pertain to everything from a cure for the plague to an apple tart recipe.”

Killian brandishes the cipher. “And they’re all in code?”

“Yes.”

Emma side-eyes the journal on Killian’s knee. “The ones you brought today aren’t translated yet, are they?”

“No,” the Apprentice admits. “I was hoping you might be able to help with that.”

Emma groans; Henry and Killian share identical, boyish grins.

\---

Killian and Henry each work on translating a journal, and Emma and Will work together on another. Emma doesn’t think Will needs her help, she thinks he just senses that she doesn’t want to sit there decoding a bunch of ancient journals, so he does the bulk of the work and even picks up her slack whenever she takes a snack break.

It drags on well into the afternoon. Sarah brings Chinese takeout for lunch; Killian calls Liam and reschedules their meeting for Friday night at the bar.

Before dinner, they put the journals away and squeeze in a game of Monopoly (which ends, as it usually does, in tears). Killian and Will leave for work at 5, and Sarah and the Apprentice depart at the same time; Henry lingers for an hour after they eat and then he heads out to meet Ava, so Emma and Ian spend the rest of the evening playing Donkey Kong and Super Mario World.

At bedtime, they pile onto her bed with Merlin’s journals, and Emma studies what they translated while Ian tries to copy the pictures into his sketchbook.

Emma reads with one eye on the text and one eye on Ian, watching his drawing of Excalibur come to life. After he copies the sword he draws people wielding it, including one little illustration of Emma that’s fighting a giant black dragon.

(She’s grateful it’s a dragon and not the Black Fairy, even if she thinks the dragon is probably a stand-in for the Black Fairy.)

They fall asleep with the light on, and Emma wakes briefly when Killian comes home, picks Ian up and carries him to his own bed, then returns and wraps himself around her.

“You’re cold,” he murmurs, voice drowsy.

“Yea.”

He doesn’t have to ask if she visited the lake, and he doesn’t have to ask how it went.

“Did you read anything useful in Merlin’s journals?”

“Useful in general? Yes. Useful for this? No.”

The way Merlin’s magic worked seems similar to how hers works, and she recognizes his theories from the exercises the Apprentice ran her through in the summer—it also reminded her that her power is like a muscle: the more she works it, the stronger it gets.

Emma needs to start practicing magic again.

(She needs to be ready.)

“It’s alright, love,” Killian mumbles. “We’ll figure it out.”

He kisses her jaw and then nuzzles his face into her neck and breathes deeply. It’s precious, how comforted he is by her touch, by the smell of her hair; it makes her feel warm and cozy, makes the words _he loves me _thrum in her chest like a second heartbeat.

Emma closes her eyes but she can’t sleep, the image of the frozen lake filling her mind, her hands and knees still cold from the memory of the ice.

\---

“Why not try breaking through and swimming for it?” Will suggests on Friday.

“Do I look like a polar bear to you?” Emma snaps, sleep-deprived and not at all in the mood for unsolicited advice.

Will clamps his mouth shut and bites the corner of his lip, Emma’s pretty sure to keep from grinning; he’s red-faced from exertion and leaning heavily on the wall surrounding the skating rink.

“Make Ian swim for it,” Henry says.

“Ian’s 6,” Emma reminds him. “And as far as I know, he’s not a polar bear either.” She knows Henry’s just joking, but she scowls and shifts irritably on the bench anyway—irritably but _slowly_, so she doesn’t start another avalanche of round ligament pains.

They’re at the outdoor rink next to the library, having decided to devote the last weekend of Ian’s Christmas vacation to doing every fun thing they can imagine before they send him back to school on Monday.

(To fulfill the week of in-school suspension and after-school detentions he got for fighting Nathaniel.)

Emma’s predicting a full five days of exhausting sullenness, an ordeal she doesn’t want compounded by insufficient sleep.

Which brings them back to Excalibur and the necessity of retrieving it from the Lady of the Lake as soon as possible.

Killian’s worried _she’s_ losing _her_ sleep over it as well. She _is_, but she’s making up for it with naps.

And it’s the naps that worry her—she hasn’t travelled to the Netherworld during them in over a week, and last night, in the room full of fire, Emma felt less _there_ than she’s felt since the Sleeping Curse.

Her connection to that realm is fading. She doesn’t know how much longer she has before it fades entirely and Ian’s left on his own.

Emma sighs inwardly. She wishes she was skating, wishes she was doing something to take her mind off of things other than watching the others—she’s decent on skates, having spent much of her childhood in Minnesota, but she didn’t think it was worth risking a fall so she’s on the sidelines with Killian.

(Killian who claimed he’s keeping her company but is really just afraid to try something new in front of witnesses.)

Robin’s there, leading Rowan by the hand. Emma lent her Ian’s hockey helmet, which means Ian’s out there careening around without one; Roland’s actually keeping up with him, the two of them playing a wild game of tag with Henry and Will that’s probably a safety hazard for everyone else in the rink.

“That’s…” Killian starts, as Ian dives through Will’s legs and skids across the ice on his belly for several feet. “That’s not…”

“He’s got his gloves on,” Emma says, patting Killian’s wrist consolingly.

Killian shakes his head. “It’ll be a miracle if he makes it to 18 with all of his fingers still intact.”

“That’s what the gloves are for.”

He snorts and flashes her a smile before slipping his arm around her waist. “Have you thought about what you want for lunch?”

“Yes.” She’s been thinking about lunch since breakfast—with a pregnancy progressing twice as fast as it’s supposed to be, she’s twice as hungry.

“And?”

“Chinese.”

“Again?”

“I ate that entire bowl of oatmeal you made for me this morning, so yes, _again_.”

“You know, Swan, at this rate the Bean’s going to leave the womb demanding Mushu’s sesame chicken.”

Emma tilts her chin up. “Then she’s already a smart little Bean.”

She refuses to be embarrassed about her cravings, especially since she _does_ heed all of Killian’s dietary advice; it’s annoying to have food thrust at her all the time—and maybe Killian’s bedside manner needs some work in that regard—but she gets where it’s coming from, gets that it’s a little bit about compensating for being helpless to fix what the Black Fairy did by making sure she and the baby are getting enough folic acid.

“Sophia?”

At Killian’s words, Emma’s lips curve into a smile. She’s getting used to him randomly proposing names for the Bean whenever they have two seconds of alone time.

“Too princess-y,” she says.

“What’s wrong with princess-y? She_ is_ technically a princess, love.”

“I know. I just don’t want her to have a princess _name_.” Killian narrows his eyes like he disagrees, so Emma adds, “Plus, I don’t think ‘Sophia Jones’ has the right ring to it.”

“No, I suppose not.” Killian frowns. “Charlotte?”

“I don’t like the sound of ‘Charlotte Jones’ either.”

_And it’s too old-fashioned_.

“Isabella?”

“No.”

“Katherine?”

“_No_.”

“Why?”

“Just…no.”

“Abigail?”

“No—for the same reason.”

“You never actually _gave_ a reason, love.” When she doesn’t elaborate, he says, “Alright, Swan. Your turn then.”

“Ciara?” she says, pronouncing it like it said to on the Irish Baby Names website she looked at. _Keer-a_.

“I think that one means dark—dark-haired or dark-eyed.”

“Oh. I guess it wouldn’t make sense to name the Bean that when we know she’s going to be blonde.”

The other girl had dark hair though. Maybe they can save ‘Ciara’ for her. Emma really likes the sound of Ciara Jones.

“What about Niamh?” Killian offers, grinning. “There’s a myth called ‘Niamh of the Golden Hair’. She was the daughter of the sea god.”

“Is that the one that ends in an ‘m-h’?”

“Aye, love, why?”

“I knew a girl in high school named ‘Niamh’. No one ever got her name right and she hated it.”

Other kids used to call her ‘Nemo’, as in _Finding Nemo_. She and Emma probably could have been friends, if Emma had ever worked up the courage to reach out to her; she’d been too shy back then, too afraid of rejection, more comfortable with being a loner.

“I don’t really want to name the baby something that reminds me of the past,” she says.

“Ah.” Killian shifts his focus to the rink, where Ian and Will are now attempting what looks like some sort of bobsledding move without the actual bobsleigh in one of the rounded corners. 

“It’s easier if you don’t watch,” Emma tells him.

“I don’t want him to get hurt.”

“He’s with Will. He’s fine.”

Killian lifts a skeptical brow, but after another moment of watching Ian, he turns back to her. “What about ‘Orla’? Or ‘Maeve’? I believe those spellings are rather straight-forward.”

“You were looking at that Irish Baby Names website too, weren’t you?” she teases.

“I may have glanced at it, aye,” he admits.

“And? Did you like any of them?”

He shrugs. “They remind me of the village I grew up in. Before my mother passed away.”

“Oh.” His tone suggests he doesn’t want to be reminded of his past either. Emma slides her arm through his, curling her hand around his elbow. “What about Gemma then? Or Jillian?”

“I’m not fond of alliteration when it comes to names, love. And-” His head jerks around and his face contorts. “Did you choose names that rhyme with ours on purpose?”

“C’mon, you don’t want us to be Killian, Killian, Emma, and Gemma? Or Emma, Killian, Killian, and Jillian?”

“No thank you, Swan.”

“How about something like Sage? Or Clementine?”

“Now you’re having me on.”

She smirks. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

\---

Another night passes, another failed attempt to get Excalibur.

\---

On Saturday morning, Killian crawls into bed at sunrise, mumbling something about _Liam _and _stayed late talking_, so when Snow and David call at 8 and volunteer to take Ian sledding, Emma agrees.

Henry leaves for his shift at the library after breakfast and takes the journal that Emma and Will never finished translating with him, so Emma’s left alone with nothing to do except take down some of the Christmas decorations and eat the last of the leftover candy.

It’s noon when she decides it’s time for Killian to wake up.

(Or time to snuggle up next to him and nap.)

Emma tiptoes—unnecessarily—up to their bedroom and finds him sprawled out on the mattress in just his boxer briefs, face in a pillow and one leg tangled in the blankets.

She lowers herself slowly down beside him, pausing only briefly to weather a spasm on her right side. He’s already awake, one cobalt blue eye open and watching her.

“Hey,” she says.

“Good morning, love,” he croaks.

She grins. “It’s noon.”

“Ugh.” He rolls onto his back and scrubs his hand down his face. “I feel awful.”

“How much did you drink?”

“Too much.”

“Did you have a nice time?”

He hesitates, his hand draped over his eyes. “Yes.”

“Did Liam?”

“I think so.”

He rolls back onto his side to face her, tucking his hand beneath the pillow. Emma reaches over and swipes her thumb along his cheekbone. “That’s good,” she says.

“Good?”

“Yea. You’re brothers. You should be in each other’s lives.”

_And I think him forgiving you is one less burden for you to bear._

“Plus,” she adds, “Ian could use an uncle—besides Will, that is.”

Killian laughs. “Ian might be just what Liam needs as well.”

“He still having trouble with the kids at Misthaven?”

“I wouldn’t say he’s having_ trouble_. It seems that they’re open to him, he just…”

“Doesn’t know how to interact with them?”

“Precisely.”

Emma shrugs. “We should have him pick Ian up from school one day and spend an afternoon with him.”

“You’d trust him with Ian?”

“Yea.”

Killian’s brow furrows. “I feel as if I’ve missed something, Swan; since when did you become a fan of my brother?”

“Since I asked him if he was planning on trying to hurt you again and he said no.”

“When did that happen?”

“Your birthday.”

“Was I…?”

“You were a bit drunk at the time, yea.”

He grimaces. “It appears my tolerance for rum is not what it used to be.”

“You don’t drink that often anymore.”

“I don’t have a _reason_ to drink anymore.”

He enjoys a beer with his dinner or when they hang out with her parents or their friends, he likes a glass of rum in the evening when it’s just the two of them relaxing; he drinks when he’s stressed, overwhelmed, but he doesn’t drink because he’s lonely.

He doesn’t drink to drown his demons.

Emma smiles softly and strokes his cheek again, and then from somewhere below there’s a loud gurgle.

“Was that your stomach or mine?” she asks, eyebrows raised.

His cheeks are tinted a delicate shade of pink. “I believe it was mine, love.”

“Are you hungry?”

“Starving. How about you?”

She smirks. “Oh, I could eat.”

\---

On Saturday night, Emma again feels very _not there_ when she awakes in the room full of fire.

At the lake she swears the wind is actually blowing _through_ her, and she has to fight against it to walk all the way out to where Excalibur is.

But it’s all pointless anyway, because for the fourth night in a row the Lady of the Lake refuses to respond, while Excalibur winks at her from below the ice, unbearably close and yet far beyond her reach.

\---

They stay inside on Sunday and watch a storm bury their front yard in another foot of snow.

Ian strays giddily to the window every few minutes, vibrating excitedly about the possibility of a snow day, but by late afternoon the storm has passed, and by the evening the streets and the sidewalks are clear.

They console Ian with pizza for dinner, and Henry even cancels his plans with Ava to watch movies and play Super Nintendo with him and Emma.

Killian returns home from work in time to tuck Ian into bed, claiming that it was a slow night so he left Will and Smee to finish the shift and close up on their own.

“Do I _have_ to go to school tomorrow?” Ian whines.

“Yes,” Emma and Killian answer, simultaneously. They share a smile, but Ian’s not amused. He glowers at them from his bed, clutching his covers to his chin sulkily.

“How about a book?” Killian offers.

Upon hearing those magic words, Ian brightens. “Ok!”

“What should we read?”

Ian bolts to his bookshelf. Emma winks at Killian and makes a discreet exit; when Killian opened the bar he sacrificed bedtimes with Ian, so whenever Killian is home for that Emma tries to give them privacy, knowing those moments together are special for the both of them.

Killian joins her an hour later, closing their bedroom door and stalking to the bed. He kisses her until she’s dizzy, then he coaxes her onto her side.

“Relax, love,” he whispers, fitting himself to her back, the length of him hot and hard against her rear. “Let me do all the work.”

At first she resists being passive, resists just lying there while Killian sweats, but gradually she melts into it, loses herself in the sensation of Killian’s lips on her neck, his hand between her legs, fingers circling slowly, on the feel of him moving inside of her.

It doesn’t occur to her until the very last second that after all the effort Killian’s putting in to ensure her ligaments don’t spasm, an orgasm might trigger the exact thing he’s trying to avoid.

The thought flashes across her mind just as her pleasure peaks, Killian’s stuttered gasp and a rough jerk of his hips sending her toppling over the edge. As the waves recede her stomach cramps—but it’s not overwhelming, not enough to distract her from Killian’s fingers gripping her thigh, his teeth brushing her shoulder, the faint pulse of him inside of her.

She doesn’t want to leave the bed to clean herself up, but she lets Killian—chuckling—pull her to her feet and shuffle her off to their bathroom.

They fall asleep discussing the nursery, arguing playfully over what color to paint the walls. Emma dreams that they paint it polka dot, and the crib is _her_ crib from her nursery in the Enchanted Forest.

She’s awoken by someone shaking her.

“Mom!”

“Huh?” She feels groggy, and a quick glance at the clock tells her it’s nearly 2am.

“Mom!” It’s Ian’s voice, muffled.

“Emma?” Killian says. It’s _his_ hand on her arm.

“M’awake,” she grumbles, right before their bedroom door bursts open.

“MOM!”

Ian runs in, brandishing something that glints metallically in the sliver of moonlight shining through a crack in their curtains.

Emma stares, then she reaches for the lamp on the bedside table. She turns it on, flooding the room with golden light.

Ian’s standing in the middle of their room, holding a long silver sword with both hands, its edge resting on his shoulder, its broken tip hovering dangerously close to his ear.

“Fuck!” Killian chokes out, an expletive Emma doesn’t often hear him utter aloud. He flies across the room and plucks Excalibur from Ian’s hands before Ian pokes his eye out with it.

Emma sits up, wincing at the immediate flare of pain down her right side. “Ian, where did you get that?”

“The lady,” he says, grinning at the sword Killian’s now holding; his mouth is agape, as though he can’t believe what he’s seeing.

“The Lady of the Lake?” Emma asks. “You talked to her?”

“Yea.” Ian shrugs. “You weren’t there so I asked her.”

“For Excalibur?”

“Uh-huh.”

Emma and Killian’s eyes meet over Ian’s head.

“And she just…gave it to you?”

Ian nods, and then touches the giant ruby set in the sword’s pommel. “Cool, huh?”


	23. Chapter 23

Emma stares down at the sword and dagger resting side-by-side on her kitchen table. They're humming, a vague sound she can't be sure if she hears in her ears or in her mind, a sound that started the instant they were brought together.

(No one else seems aware of it, so Emma guesses it must be in her mind and a result of her magic.)

"Your son just…asked for it?" Regina says, scowling at the sword.

"That's what he told us," Emma replies tiredly, her chin in her hand. She's the only one sitting; everyone else is standing in a loose circle around the table.

"And you believe him?" Regina prompts.

"Yea. Why wouldn't I?"

Regina arches an eyebrow. "Because you're his mother."

Emma raises her own eyebrow in challenge. "You think I'm too blinded by unconditional love to know if my kid's lying or not?"

Before Regina can respond, Killian cuts in.

"Ian wouldn't lie about this," he says. "And even if he did we'd know; he's a terrible liar."

"Even _I_ know when he's lying," Snow confides.

"_Sometimes_," Killian mumbles—followed by a harsh grunt as Emma elbows him in the ribs.

Ian's lies are transparent to both of them—and even to Henry—but Emma's seen him charm the pants off of other people enough times to know that he's actually extremely _good_ at lying, just not good enough to get past his pirate father or ex-petty-criminal of a mother.

(He's at least cooled it on the whole pick-pocketing thing.)

(Or—and this is a truly terrifying thought—he's gotten so good at it that Emma doesn't notice anymore.)

"So, what do we do now?" David asks, uncrossing his arms and taking a seat. "How are we supposed to re-forge them?"

The Apprentice's frustrated sigh speaks volumes, and the tremulous bubble of hope Emma's carried in her chest all morning begins to deflate.

Snow moves to David's side, her arm slipping around his shoulders. "Can't we do it the same way we would with a normal sword?"

"Unfortunately, no," the Apprentice answers. "We might be able to _physically_ bond the two halves of the sword that way, but the magic inside of it would remain broken. We need something stronger."

"Stronger and _magical_, I'm assuming?" Killian says.

"Correct."

"What about Merlin's hat?" Snow suggests.

Emma looks up quickly, but the Apprentice shakes his head.

"The hat is drained. It needs time to recharge."

"How much time?" Killian asks.

"Ideally? Several decades."

Killian's shoulders slump dejectedly.

"Is there any way to fast charge it?" Emma says. "Like a cell phone?"

The Apprentice frowns, considering. "There _are_ certain astronomical events that could—as you say—_fast charge_ the hat, but…"

He trails off with a grimace, and Regina snorts. "Let me guess," she drawls. "None of them are happening any time soon?"

"No," the Apprentice admits. "At least, not soon enough for our purposes."

"That's a good thing to keep in mind though," Snow interjects brightly. "Merlin's hat is still useful even if we can't use it right now. There's a chance it could help us with something else in the future."

David smiles and reaches up to grasp the hand Snow has resting on his shoulder and thread his fingers through hers. The Apprentice smiles too, bemusedly. "I shall make the appropriate annotations on my calendar," he says quietly.

Everyone's silent after that for a while, their eyes fixed on Excalibur and the Dark One's dagger, brows creased thoughtfully.

"What about the Lady of the Lake?" Emma wonders. "Would she know how to do it?"

The Apprentice blinks, as though he hadn't considered it before. "Yes," he says. "She might."

"You want to send your son back to ask her?" Regina asks, obviously doubtful of Ian's ability to handle such an interrogation.

"_I_ want to ask her," Emma counters.

Killian's knuckles brush her arm, his blue eyes pin her with a worried look. "How, love? I thought you were finished with the Netherworld?"

"You're never really finished with the Netherworld," Snow whispers from across the table.

Emma smiles at her mom sadly; even though she didn't travel to the room full of fire last night, Emma knows she hasn't seen the last of it. "I bet," she says slowly, gaze moving from Snow to the Apprentice, "that if my soul was untethered from my body right now, it would go straight to the Netherworld."

"And you believe that from there you could get to the lake?" the Apprentice asks. "Without Ian?"

"I don't know. But I want to try."

If there's a chance Emma can do this without Ian, then she's going to take it. It's not fair to rely on him the way they have been. And…

And Emma needs to feel in control again.

The last time she felt in control was when they were tracking down spiders, but since then—since getting put under a Sleeping Curse, since her family and friends had to put themselves in danger to rescue her, since getting trapped in Storybrooke, and since finding out her pregnancy was magically altered—Emma's felt at the mercy of forces outside her control.

And she hates that.

If she can do this, if she can reach the lake and get the information they need…she'll feel a little less useless than she has been.

The Apprentice regards her seriously for a long moment, then he nods and turns to Regina. She rolls her eyes, and then flicks her wrist sharply; a poof of purple smoke expands in her palm, and when it fades she's clutching a Hermes jar full of what Emma recognizes as unicorn blood.

"Just keep it," Regina mutters, thrusting the jar at the Apprentice. She turns on her heel and stalks to the front door. "I have some errands to run—you don't need me for this, do you?"

"I think we'll manage," the Apprentice replies mildly, lifting the jar to eye-level and squinting at it. Through the glass, he looks at Emma. "I will have to put some of this on your chest. You might want to change."

\---

Emma finds an old tank top with a low neckline and spaghetti straps that fits over her belly and puts it on. It looks ridiculous with her sports bra, but it really can't be helped at this point.

Downstairs, Killian leads her to the couch and gently covers her with a blanket once she lays down. He looks worried again—it's another adventure he can't go on, another possibly dangerous mission he has to sit on the sidelines for.

"I'll be right back," Emma assures him, catching his hand with hers and squeezing it.

Killian smiles at her. He brings her hand to his lips and kisses her knuckles, murmurs, "I know you will, love."

"We'll watch over you," David says. He's standing at the foot of the couch, arms folded over his chest. "If it looks like you're in trouble, we'll wake you up."

"Thanks, dad."

The Apprentice appears, standing over her holding Excalibur, one hand wrapped around the hilt, the other carefully cradling the broken tip. "Take this with you."

"Why?" Emma asks.

"It's connected to the Lady of the Lake. It might help you reach her."

Killian steps aside so the Apprentice can pass Emma the sword. She takes it and settles it along her body as comfortably as possible, firmly gripping the handle.

"Are you sure it will come with me?"

"It made the journey from Camelot here through a dream," the Apprentice replies. "It should be able to make the journey back."

"Just don't leave it there," David advises.

Emma snorts. "I won't."

Killian sits by her feet, and the Apprentice sits on the coffee table and leans over her. "Close your eyes," he directs.

She obeys, exhaustion tugging heavily at her the moment she does. She didn't sleep after Ian barged into her and Killian's room waving Excalibur, and the argument they had with him that morning about going to school pushed her to her limits.

(At least Henry's an adult and went to work without a fight despite how excited he was about Excalibur.)

Emma hears the Hermes jar open, the faint pop of released suction, and then icy fingers touch her breastbone. She barely manages not to flinch, though every muscle from her jaw to her belly button clenches tight.

"How long-" she starts, but then her tongue abruptly feels too thick, and the darkness hovering in the corners of her mind rises up and swallows her.

With a start, she wakes up, squinting her eyes against the bright flickers of red and orange fire. A familiar heat washes over her, prickling her skin; sweat beads her brow and streaks down her neck, her back, between her breasts, all the while dense fields of fire crackle around her, occasionally shooting towards the distant ceiling in roaring bursts.

Emma did _not_ miss this place.

She sighs and tucks her elbows in, closes her eyes and starts taking deep breaths.

Excalibur is cold despite the heat. She holds it vertically in front of her, the flat of its blade nearly touching her nose, the chill of it cooling her cheeks. Gradually she turns her focus inward, everything falling away except for the place inside of her where her magic dwells, as always appearing to her as a mountain spring.

She almost cries out with relief when she sees it; she was hoping she was right, hoping her assumption that since the Netherworld isn't a physical place then it shouldn't matter that her physical body isn't there.

Gratefully, she wades into the pool of her magic until she's standing waist deep in sparkling white water that makes her blood buzz.

Excalibur is buzzing too, she realizes, that vague hum in her ears, a faint vibration against her fingers.

Emma takes several more deep breaths. In her mind she pictures the frozen lake, its glazed surface, the black water underneath, the banks of unsullied snow surrounding it, the willow tree in the corner, its leaves an elaborate lattice of ice.

And then she's there.

Her magic slips from her grasp. The heat from the room of fire evaporates and the freezing wind tears at her. Emma wraps her arms around herself and surveys the lake quickly, heart pounding in her chest.

Ahead, there's a hole in the ice that wasn't there before, a dark spot in the colorless landscape.

Emma walks out to it as swiftly as she can, still holding Excalibur tightly, now a bit defensively. When she hears the ice beneath her feet crunch, she stops and takes a step back, then, slowly, she lowers herself to her knees and lays Excalibur across her thighs.

She never takes her eyes off the hole in the ice, and when she's settled, she calls, "Hello?"

There's no response. Emma sort of expected it, and yet annoyance flares to life in her chest nonetheless.

"Listen," she says. "I know you talked to my kid. I know you gave him Excalibur. Please. I need to talk to you. I have to ask you something."

She pauses, waits a heartbeat, but nothing happens, so she plunges on.

"We need Excalibur to defeat the Black Fairy, but it's broken. We have the other piece, we just don't know how to put them back together."

Emma stops again, and this time, after several shaky breaths, a bubble breaks the pristine surface of the water.

_Oh shit oh shit oh shit._

Her stomach clenches in anticipation as another bubble follows, and then another and another, each larger than the last. She leans back, thinking wildly that the Loch Ness monster is about to fucking pop out of the ice and eat her, but then a head of slick dark hair emerges.

The Lady of the Lake rises smoothly from the water until her bare shoulders are exposed, and there she floats, watching Emma, silent and unblinking.

"Thank you for the sword," Emma starts.

The Lady of the Lake continues to stare. She has the most beautiful face Emma's ever seen, but she's as terrifying as she is striking, pale skin laced through with thin blue veins and irises as liquid black as her pupils, frost clinging to her brows and lashes.

Emma shivers, and, teeth chattering, says, "We n-need to re-forge Excalibur, but we don't know how to do it. Can you help us?"

"You need the flame," the Lady of the Lake whispers. Her voice is like water trickling over rocks.

"What flame?" Emma asks quickly.

"Mankind's first flame. The flame Excalibur was originally forged in."

"I don't-"

An image appears in her mind, and she closes her eyes against it, startled.

She sees what looks like a glowing piece of charcoal, wreathed in fire.

"What is it?" she blurts.

There's no answer, and when Emma opens her eyes, the Lady of the Lake is gone, the surface of the black water smooth and unbroken once more.

"Wait!" Emma yells, falling forward onto her hands, fingers curling into the thin crust of snow on the ice's surface. "Wait! I don't know what that is!"

And then something takes her by the shoulders and shakes her violently.

Emma gasps and jolts upright, shivering. She's awake, back in her body, back in her front room. A blanket is thrown over her shoulders, a hot mug gets pushed into her hands.

"Drink," her mom orders. "You need to warm up."

Emma nods and takes a grateful swig of the hot chocolate. It warms her stomach instantly, and after several more sips her shivering stops.

Killian's next to her, hand and hook keeping the blankets in place. "What happened?" he asks.

"I s-saw her," Emma says. "I saw the L-lady of the Lake."

"What did she say?"

"She said we n-need the fl-flame."

"Flame?"

"She s-said 'mankind's first flame'."

"The Flame of Prometheus," the Apprentice rumbles.

Emma and Killian look up.

"Prometheus as in…Greek mythology?" Emma ventures. "That's real too?"

"Yes."

"So the flame is…the flame he stole from the gods?"

"Yes."

"It's not in Greece or something, is it?" Emma groans. They can't even get to Bangor right now, let alone Greece.

"I don't know where it is," the Apprentice says. "But-"

Killian clears his throat. "I know where it is."

Emma swivels to face him. "You do?"

"Aye. It's right here in Storybrooke."

* * *

_The Flame of Prometheus._

It took Killian two full minutes of furious thought to remember where he'd heard of it before, and when it came to him it was both an immense relief and a colossal disappointment.

The Flame of Prometheus is currently in Storybrooke, but to get it they'll have to go through one of the last men on earth Killian wants to beg a favor from: _Nemo_. Grudgingly, he makes the call. Grudgingly, he agrees to meet Nemo at Misthaven House after they pick up Ian from school.

Emma pats his arm consolingly, but her expression is unsympathetic.

Killian understands. His pride isn't the priority here. The priority is re-forging Excalibur so they have a chance of destroying the Black Fairy with it.

At 3:15, they retrieve Ian from his after-school detention.

He's the only one in the office besides the principal, sitting in a desk set against the wall directly outside her door. He doesn't smile when he sees Emma and Killian, he just looks at Mrs. Herbert and once he receives her nod he stands, puts his backpack on, and slouches across the office to meet them.

"Did you get to see Leo today?" Emma asks him, when they're outside.

"No," Ian murmurs.

"Why don't you get his new phone number on the playground before school tomorrow and we can try to set up a sleepover for the weekend or something?"

Ian picks his head up. "Really?"

The watch that Nathaniel stole from Leo turned out to be a gift from his new parents—his adoption went through at the beginning of December, and he moved in with his new family over Christmas break. Ian wanted desperately to see his friend, but Emma and Killian decided Leo deserved a chance to settle into his new home before Ian invaded.

"Yea," Emma replies with a grin. "He can come over Friday night and we'll drop him off on Saturday morning after your hockey game."

Ian's mood lifts after that, and he chatters excitedly about all the things he wants to do with Leo during their sleepover while they drive to Misthaven House.

Killian parks, and Ian's already unbuckled and halfway out the car door before he thinks to ask, "What're we doing here?"

"We have to pick up something from Nemo," Killian says.

Ian skips up the front walkway ahead of them, but stops halfway to the house and turns. "Hey, where's Excalibur?"

"It's at home."

"Did you fix it yet?"

"No. That's actually why we're here."

"Oh. Is Nemo gonna fix it?"

"Not exactly," Killian mutters, and doesn't elaborate.

A fairy in a stiff blue uniform lets them in and takes their coats.

Killian looks around while they dry their shoes on the mat. He's only been inside a handful of times since their first visit back in June—every occasion was to pick Ian up from a playdate with Leo, and on every occasion Killian didn't travel much farther than the front door.

To the left is the staircase that leads to the second floor, from where Killian can hear a little girl's voice, some giggling, and a baby crying; to the right is a spacious front room.

Liam is sitting on the couch beside Alvin and two older boys. All four have controllers in their hands, and the eyes of every child crowded around them is glued to the television in the corner, where a wild game of Mario Kart is currently in progress.

Ian tugs urgently on Killian's jacket. "Can I play?" he whispers.

Killian's gaze sweeps over the room. Most of the children gathered there are Ian's age or younger, save for the three boys sitting with Liam and the one standing behind the couch with his arms crossed over his chest. There's a small fellow perched next to Alvin who looks like his twin save for his size and his buzzcut—Alvin's younger brother, Killian surmises.

Nathaniel's there as well, separate from the others, curled up in an armchair in a corner at the back of the room.

Just as Killian feels a swell of sympathy for him, the room erupts in shouts and one of the boys next to Liam throws his arms up in victory.

Liam slumps dramatically in defeat, then stands and turns to Nathaniel and offers him the controller.

"Would you like a turn?" Liam asks.

Emma makes a soft sound in her throat that sounds like approval. Nathaniel rises and reaches for the controller, and Liam relinquishes his spot on the couch. He leaves the front room to join them in the hallway.

"Hi," he greets, just as a door opens down the hallway.

Nemo leans out and beckons them to his office. It's a cozy room paneled with warm-colored wood, one wall plastered with children's drawings and graded school papers. Nemo closes the door behind them and then goes behind his desk, reaching into a bottom drawer to pull out an ornate copper box. He sets the box on his desk and opens the lid.

"Is this what you're looking for?"

Killian, Emma, and Ian step closer. Inside the box is a glowing lump of rock. Killian—who judges the size of things in relation to fruits and vegetables now thanks to every pregnancy blog on the internet—estimates it to be as large as an apricot.

"Is that the flame?" Emma asks.

"Aye," Liam answers quietly from behind them.

_The Flame of Prometheus._

Nemo and Liam told Killian that the Flame is what powers the Nautilus and enables it to travel between realms. It's not the only one—there are more such embers scattered throughout the world—but Nemo's only ever come across two others in his lifetime, both of which are currently unreachable.

Killian turns to look at Liam. "Are you certain you're willing to part with it?"

Liam nods. "It's yours."

"You won't be able to leave here."

"I can't exactly leave here right now even with the Flame. I'm stuck in Storybrooke until the Black Fairy is defeated, and—from what I understand—the Flame of Prometheus is a necessary part of making that happen."

"I'll try to use it without destroying it," Emma promises.

Liam shrugs. "Do what you need to do. Don't worry about the Nautilus."

"I'm worried about _you_," Emma counters.

Liam's eyebrows jerk towards his hairline, and Killian thinks he sees a similar expression of surprise flit across Nemo's face before he hides it.

"I'm fine," Liam says, pale cheeks blushing a delicate shade of pink. "It's—I don't mind it here."

Then Liam's gaze darts past Emma, and his eyes widen.

Ian—unnoticed by anyone—had managed to get close enough to the copper box on Nemo's desk to reach out and touch the Flame; the moment his fingers touch the glowing ember it ignites.

He lets out a startled cry and stumbles backwards into Killian's waiting arms. Nemo snaps the box shut quickly, stifling the fire, and Emma grabs Ian's hands, inspecting them for burns.

"I'm okay," Ian insists, wiggling in Killian's grasp. "It didn't hurt."

Emma scowls. "I think it's time to go home and do some homework," she says darkly.

"I already did my homework," Ian replies brightly.

"When?"

"In detention." Ian grins. "Can we stay? I wanna play Mario Kart."

Nemo snorts, but the sound is quickly swallowed by a flurry of fake coughs as he presses his fist to his mouth and turns away.

"Why don't you stay for dinner?" Liam suggests, voice pitched loud enough to be audible over Nemo's coughing. "There's always plenty to eat, and we could use some more adults at the dinner table."

Emma looks up at Killian. He tips his chin downwards, a subtle nod.

"Sure," she says, to Liam. "Do you mind if Henry joins us? I don't want to make him eat dinner by himself."

"Of course."

When Nemo recovers, he turns back around. He looks back and forth between Liam and Killian, and then he beams.

Killian sighs inwardly.

_The bastard got what he wanted after all._


	24. Chapter 24

In a twist that really should not have surprised them, when they go to the Apprentice's house with the Flame of Prometheus, he answers the door holding a book, which he thrusts at them and says, "Excalibur must be re-forged during the new moon."

"Seriously?" Emma groans. "When's that?"

"Three weeks away," Killian replies, squinting at the book in his hand. It's not a journal, but he recognizes Merlin's handwriting in the margins.

"Why does it have to be a new moon?" Emma asks.

The Apprentice taps a bit of text beside Killian's thumb. "It must be re-forged under the same conditions it was originally created in, and it was forged beneath a new moon."

"So we have to wait?"

"Yes."

"For three weeks?"

"Consider it this way: you have three weeks to practice magic."

"And your sword-handling," Killian says, though with any luck all Emma will need Excalibur for is to deliver a killing blow; she won't be alone when she faces the Black Fairy, and Killian will do everything in his power to ensure Emma doesn't have to engage in any close-quarters combat.

He realizes then that as soon as they re-forge Excalibur they'll have to immediately lure the Black Fairy to Storybrooke, because the longer they wait the less physically able to fight Emma will be.

And if they try to wait until after the baby's born…

From what Killian's read, Emma will be in no condition to _walk_ directly after giving birth, let alone do battle—and they're assuming that's when the Black Fairy will make her move, when Emma's most vulnerable.

Killian's stomach twists. Emma's vulnerable_ now_. Her trying to fight while pregnant would be like Killian trying to fight while carrying Ian on his back. It's the farthest thing possible from ideal.

And yet Killian can think of no alternative.

Dread sits like a shadow over his heart for the rest of the evening. Neither he nor Emma have the energy for date night, so at home they watch a movie with the boys in the den, and at 9 they put Ian to bed.

They crawl into their own bed right after, too drained to do much besides snuggle and murmur drowsily at each other.

Emma falls asleep almost immediately, but despite Killian's exhaustion, slumber eludes him.

He dozes, awakening every hour or so, always freezing and feeling for Emma at his side, listening for Ian—they had a serious discussion with him after his bath, told him he needed to stop travelling in his dreams, told him it's not safe, that it’s similar to how he can’t wander the neighborhood at night on his own, told him that he has a power that bad people might want and that those bad people might find him in his dreams.

“Like the Black Fairy?” Ian asked.

“Yea, kid, like her,” Emma whispered, her grip tightening on Ian's elbows.

Around midnight, Killian hears Henry finally go up to his bedroom in the attic. He hears Will return home soon after, wonders vaguely where he was—if he was with Liam, perhaps—before falling once more into a light sleep.

In the morning he's barely rested, but he drags himself out of bed and down the hallway to wake Ian anyway—quietly, so Emma can sleep.

Killian makes breakfast while Ian gets dressed and brushes his teeth, sends the boy back upstairs thrice—once to put on a sweater that doesn't have a hole in the sleeve, once to get his tie, and the last time to brush his teeth _for real_.

Emma's still asleep when Killian returns from dropping Ian off at school, so he settles in the reading nook with _To Kill a Mockingbird_—another of Henry's recommendations from the library—and waits for her to wake up.

She shuffles down the stairs at 10, rubbing her eyes and looking around for him blearily. When she spots him, she walks over and collapses into the matching chair opposite him.

Killian drapes his book over his knee and smiles at her. "Good morning, love."

"Morning," she returns.

He thinks he'll always love how Emma looks in summer light more than she does in winter light, but he'll never for as long as he lives miss an opportunity to appreciate how beautiful she is in _any_ light. Her hair is more flaxen than gold, her freckles—like Ian's—faded but still visible, and she's glowing, everything about her lustrous despite her natural winter pallor.

"Why didn't you wake me up?" she asks.

"You need your sleep," he replies. He read about all the sleep problems she's likely to develop—problems that will now affect her twice as soon.

"_You_ need to sleep as much as you can too," Emma counters, one eyebrow raised pointedly.

(He must look as haggard as he feels.)

"When this baby's born you're gonna be on Ian duty," she continues. "So you should probably start saving up your energy for that."

Killian grins. "No need to worry about me," he says. Then his grin fades as Emma's words sink in. His spine stiffens, and his fingers tighten on the corner of his book. "Wait, do you—Emma, do you not expect me to help with the baby?"

A mixture of anger and dismay roil to life in his chest. This child is _his_ as much as it is Emma's—why would she think that he wouldn't be just as involved with the babe as he is with Ian? Does she _not_ want him involved? Does she consider him deficient?

Emma blinks in surprise, her eyebrows climbing her forehead. "Of course I know you're gonna help. I just meant there are going to be some things you _can't_ do. Especially in the beginning."

"Like what?" he demands.

"Uh, like breastfeed?"

Killian's cheeks burn suddenly as his irritation vanishes and embarrassment takes its place. He lifts his hand to his face and scrubs at his forehead. "I—I'm sorry, Swan. It was—my reaction was presumptuous. I thought perhaps you didn't believe me capable of caring for an infant."

"Why would I think that?"

"Inexperience," he ventures. "Or this." He gestures with his stump, only for Emma to make a face at it.

"Killian, I know you're not an invalid," she says, reaching out to lay her fingers over his blunted wrist. "Taking care of a baby is a lot different than taking care of a 6-year-old but you'll get the hang of it."

He lets out a breath, hoping his cheeks will cool sometime within the next century. "Aye, Swan. My apologies for jumping to conclusions."

Emma leans gently across the gap between their chairs and kisses him lightly on the cheek. "I just can't believe you actually thought I'd let you get away with not helping me change diapers," she teases.

Killian chuckles. "Well, when you put it that way, I guess I should have known better."

"Yep. I did two and a half years of Ian's diapers all by myself; this time it's your turn." She smiles at him for a long moment, then her forehead creases again as her eyes flick back and forth between his own. "Are you okay?"

He considers lying—just to keep her from worrying—but in the end he decides that he wouldn't want _her_ to lie to _him_ if the situation were reversed, so he says, "No, love. I'm not."

"What's wrong?"

He shakes his head, not intending to answer directly, but the words come pouring out of his mouth anyway. "I'm scared."

"Scared? Of what?"

"Of you having to face the Black Fairy like this."

"Yea," she whispers, her hands sliding around her belly, cupping it from the bottom. "It's not gonna be easy."

She's 16 weeks pregnant now. 4 months.

Thinking of it as 4 months makes it feel like _more, _for some reason.

They should have 5 months left to prepare for the Bean's arrival, to figure out how to keep her safe from the Black Fairy, but now they only have 2 and a half, possibly 3, depending on how long she wants to stay inside her mother towards the end.

Killian reflexively redirects his thoughts to reciting everything he knows about the Bean's growth and development.

_She's the size of an avocado_, he thinks, soothed by the simple facts, by how mundane it is compared to prophecies and legendary swords and witches that eat children to absorb their magic.

As big as an avocado, and working on forming the tiny bones in her ears that will allow her to hear their voices.

Killian already talks and sings to her. He's hoping when she's born she'll recognize his voice and the songs he hums against her mother's belly—that sort of connection might just come in handy, to help convince her that he's worthy of her, that he's capable of being her father.

His outburst earlier had been revealing: he's terrified that he won't be any good at handling an infant, that his one-handedness will prove a detriment, that he'll be too dangerous with his hook and too useless without it.

He's terrified that he'll miss everything with the Bean that he missed with Ian—purely out of incompetence.

"We can probably get you, like, a doll or something to practice on," Emma says.

Killian looks up quickly—and realizes that he was frowning at his blunted wrist, that he must have given himself away.

"Or," she adds, "maybe we can ask Nemo if there's a baby at Misthaven you can practice with. Although…we probably shouldn't phrase it like that."

Her gentle smile is like sunshine peeking through the storm clouds crowding his mind, and although his fears remain, sitting heavily in his chest, his dark mood is banished.

"A doll should suffice," he says, grinning. "No need to endanger the misfortunate babes of Storybrooke."

\---

Tuesday nights are slow ones for The Crow's Nest. There are only a few patrons scattered about the place, all regulars, mostly dock workers in small knots and some of the dwarves, a few men who always drink alone.

David enters the bar shortly after they open. It's not unusual, David typically visits at least once a week, but as David walks through the door and Killian glances over, he does a double-take.

David's carrying a naked baby, and it's not until he's sliding onto a stool that Killian realizes it's a doll.

A second later, he realizes what the doll is _for_.

"That was fast," he says, folding his arms over his chest. He and Emma only just discussed obtaining some sort of doll for him to practice with; they browsed the internet comparing various strollers and car seats as well—is he going to return home to find them bought already?

"Emma asked Snow if she knew where to get one of these, so of course Snow spent all day tracking one down," David explains.

Killian unfolds his arms, his irritation caving a fraction. David takes that as a signal, reaches down and grabs the doll's wrist, waves its tiny plastic hand at Killian, then grins.

"Wanna hold him?"

"Where did you even get that thing from?" Killian stalls.

"The hospital. They use it to train the nurses that take care of the newborns."

Will steps up next to Killian, slings a towel over his shoulder and makes a face. "That's not the one that gets pushed out of the lady mannequin's vagina, is it?"

"What?" David splutters.

Will shrugs. "The last week I was in the hospital I started wandering around a bit during the day. Saw a few things I wish I hadn't."

"You saw a mannequin give birth?"

"No, I saw a mannequin with a tiny little face peeking out of its vagina and-"

"Okay, that's enough," David says loudly, closing his eyes and holding up a hand. "Let's talk about something else."

"Like how that baby's got no clothes on?"

David opens his eyes and glares. "They gave it to me like this."

"Well, fix it mate. That's obscene."

Will tugs the towel off his shoulder and tosses it onto the doll. David snatches the towel off and flings it back at Will.

"It's a _baby_," he hisses. "And not even a real one. Who cares if it's naked?"

"I do," Will replies archly. "I don't need to see its tiny-"

David blushes furiously. Killian swallows the half-formed barb on his tongue—something about size envy—and instead gives Will a shove towards the gap in the counter.

"Go wait a table or something, mate," he growls.

David's a prude in many ways but Killian doesn't think the man deserves to be teased for it.

Will saunters away, smirking. Killian takes a deep breath, and before he loses his nerve he turns back to David. "Alright, give that thing here."

David stands. "Which arm?"

In answer, Killian crooks his hook arm.

David passes the doll over the counter, handling it as carefully as though it were a real baby. Killian accepts the doll, keenly aware of the attention being paid to his every move by the majority of the bar.

The doll settled comfortably in his arms, Killian steps back. It feels disturbingly genuine, far heavier and more pliable than he thought it would be.

"You're a natural," David says.

Killian grunts wordlessly in response, caught up in the experience. With the baby on his stump arm, he can't cup its bottom to hold it more securely, but this way does leave his hand free—to hold a bottle, adjust a pacifier, stroke a cheek…

Or fill an order.

Leroy appears at the counter and thumps his empty glass down pointedly. Killian doesn't hesitate. Tending bar is a reflex at this point and he's used to relying on his right side anyway, so it's merely a matter of focusing on bending and turning without tilting the doll too much or bumping its head on anything.

And of course as soon as Killian relaxes, the door opens and Ian rushes in, trailed by Emma. Ian hops onto the stool next to David, eyes falling immediately to the doll in Killian's arms.

His nose scrunches. "What's that for?"

"It's a baby," David says lightly.

"What's it for?"

"For practicing," Killian replies, ignoring the grin Emma's flashing at him over Ian's head.

"Practicing? Haven't you ever held a baby before?"

"No." At least, not one so small as the Bean will be when she's born. "Have you?"

Ian blinks, then his nose un-wrinkles and his eyes widen. "No."

Killian feels a wicked smile pulling on his lips. "Well, then maybe you should practice too."

"Do you want to hold it?" Emma asks Ian, but Killian's already passing the doll over the counter.

Ian leans away and goes still, but he doesn't fight Emma as she moves his arms into position, nor Killian as he places the doll in his lap. He stares down at the baby, barely breathing.

"Why don't you tell your dad what you did at practice today?" Emma prompts gently.

After a moment, Ian looks up, beaming. The hair at his temples and around his ears is still damp with sweat. "I skated backwards around the whole rink—_three_ times!"

"Wow," Killian says, in an impressed tone that's only slightly exaggerated.

"And coach let me try goalie."

"Did you like it?"

He shrugs. "I like skating better." He looks back down at the doll, then up at Killian once more. "Why is it naked?"

"Ask your grandfather."

David heaves a long-suffering sigh.

Emma shakes her head and then nudges Ian again. "Why don't you tell your dad what else happened tonight?"

"Huh?"

"You know…" She drops her voice to a whisper. "The nursery?"

Ian gasps. "Oh, yea!"

Earlier, Emma told him, "The baby shower is in two weeks and we haven't even done the registry yet."

_"Do we have to paint in order to do the registry?" he asked._

_"We should at least decide what we're painting so we know what sort of bedding we want and everything."_

_"Aren't we just painting the nursery a color?"_

_"I mean, we can if you want to but I thought it would be cool to do something more interesting, like stripes or polka dots or something—and if we do that then we need to make sure the bedding matches otherwise it will look weird."_

It all seems very complicated and Killian truly does _not _understand, but he didn't argue. They spent an hour browsing Pinterest, saved photos of their favorites, and then Emma decided that she wanted to let Ian pick the theme, so that he could feel involved and not left out or put aside.

"Mom, show him the picture!" Ian gushes.

Emma removes her phone from her coat pocket, taps the screen, and then slides it across the counter.

Killian catches it. He recognizes the photo, but still he asks, "What am I looking at?"

"The nursery!" Ian exclaims.

"Did you two decide?"

"Uh-huh!"

The photo on Emma's phone shows part of a room, just the crib and a portion of the wall, painted pale gray with a darker gray crescent moon, fluffy white cloud, and a sprinkle of stars, darker than the wall but lighter than the moon.

"Are you certain you don't want something with more color, love?"

"Color can come from other things in the room." Emma gently smacks his hand out of the way and swipes through the photos in the opposite direction until she finds one that shows an entire nursery—it also has gray walls, but there are pops of pink strewn throughout: the bedding, the curtains and the rug, the upholstery on the rocking chair and the changing table.

"Ah," Killian says. "You like the pink?"

"I was thinking yellow, actually, but Ian likes blue."

"_Aqua_," Ian corrects.

Killian lifts a brow. "Aqua?"

Now it's Ian's hand brushing Killian's to the side. Killian notices he's moving mindful of the doll still sitting on his lap, leaning forward but not too far, keeping the baby secure in the crook of his arm.

He barely hears Ian's pitch about aqua, too busy smiling to himself.

\---

Emma and Ian stay for an hour and then head home.

They leave the doll, and Killian spends the rest of the night carrying it around. Leroy teases him, asks him what they named it—to which Killian's reply is a different ridiculous moniker every time; the dock workers offer him rowdy congratulations, and a man whom Killian has never heard speak tells him that the day his daughter was born was the best day of his life.

Last call is at 1am, and at 1:45 Killian and Will have The Crow's Nest cleaned up and closed up.

Killian carries the doll to the car, but he feels bad just tossing it in the backseat so he straps it in. Will grins and—wisely—doesn't comment.

At the house, Killian puts the doll somewhere it won't frighten anyone if they stumble across it in the dark, takes a quick shower to wash the smell of the bar off his skin, checks that both Excalibur and the dagger are secure, then crawls into bed next to Emma.

She sighs as he wraps himself around her, but doesn't wake.

Killian closes his eyes. He's exhausted and expects sleep to find him quickly—it does, but it's a sleep filled with frantic dreams.

The Black Fairy, half woman and half spider, monstrous and warped, chases him through blood-streaked snow; standing alone in the center of a frozen lake, a blanket-wrapped bundle in his arms, an infant's high-pitched cries in his ears. When he reaches down and moves the blanket off the baby's face so it can breathe he discovers there is no baby, it's an empty blanket—and then his arms are empty too but the baby's still crying, somewhere out there in the forest beyond the lake.


	25. Chapter 25

The new moon is marked on the calendar—Friday, January 24th. One week after the baby shower Snow is being an absolute fiend about; Emma managed to talk her into downgrading from the Town Hall auditorium to the loft, and that's pretty much the only fight Emma has the energy for.

Between resuming magic lessons with the Apprentice, practicing her swordsmanship with Killian and David, and painting the nursery—all on top of her normal, everyday mom duties—she's feeling stretched thin.

(Luckily, she's technically on medical leave from the station so she doesn't have to worry about Sheriffing.)

They decided the small bedroom next to their room would be the nursery—a baby doesn't need much space, they reasoned, and the proximity is convenient.

Currently the room is storage, home to plastic bins that hold some of Henry and Ian's old belongings, toys and clothes mostly, treasures that Emma confessed to Killian she could never bring herself to get rid off.

After Killian and Henry clear out the room they drive to the hardware store, where the wall of paint chips has more shades of every color than there should be.

Emma wishes immediately that Ian were there to help them differentiate.

The names shouldn't matter but she finds herself rejecting colors based on their name alone: Seattle Gray gets put aside in favor of Whispering Waterfall, and Whispering Waterfall loses to Owl Gray, which is in turn replaced with the lighter and warmer Sea Salt.

Killian chooses Rainstorm for the stars, and they both decide on Arctic Seal—a darker, bluish gray—for the crescent moon.

It takes them a few days to finish, to tape off the baseboards and apply primer and then paint three coats of Sea Salt—the last one purely to cover up Ian's enthusiastic but splotchy brushstrokes.

When it's time for the details—the moon, clouds, and stars—Emma starts to panic, but Killian's got it under control; he already had Ian make a cloud tracer from a piece of poster board, bought a star-shaped cookie cutter from the grocery store, and for the moon he traces the circular rim of their laundry basket, twice so that the overlapping bits create a near-perfect crescent.

As a final embellishment, he adds small clusters of star "cut-outs" to the clouds and draws thin lines connecting several of the larger stars to the moon, making it appear as though the stars are hanging from the moon by strings.

It's…

"Impressive," Emma praises.

Killian grins.

\---

On Friday, the nursery is finally finished, the tape peeled off and the drop cloth removed. Emma and Killian are standing in the center of the room, and that's when it really hits her: there's going to be a baby in there soon.

It's terrifying.

Black Fairy aside, there are a lot of things Emma's not looking forward to. Take labor, for instance: who the hell wants to go through that? Her vagina literally cringes every time she thinks about it.

How about months on end of not sleeping? Of waking up every few hours for feedings? Of being at the mercy of a tiny, screaming alarm clock? Of showering and eating a meal while sitting down feeling like a luxury?

And Killian…Emma's already gone through two pregnancies and raised a baby before. Her fake memories of raising Henry helped her through that first year with Ian, otherwise she might have ended up crying on Sarah's couch more than just that one time. But Killian has zero baby experience. He's adapted to raising Ian—sometimes she forgets that he's only been Ian's father for 6 months—but a baby is a lot different.

She's not worried about his hook or him only having one hand, she's worried about how overwhelming having an infant can be; how exhausting and sometimes frustrating it is.

Still, he won't be alone.

_She_ won't be alone.

There will be someone to handle a feeding when she's too tired to get out of bed, someone to complain to about her sore nipples, someone to do the dishes or the laundry when she just…can't. And she'll be there to guide Killian, reassure him, remind him that babies don't cry purely out of spite, even if it feels like they do.

It's going to be an entirely different adventure, this time.

Emma turns to him then, finds him glowering at his handiwork on the wall with narrowed eyes.

"The clouds are crooked," he says, when he notices her watching him.

"They're _clouds_," Emma counters. "I don't think clouds can be crooked."

"They can, and they are."

"Should we call in the expert?"

"Do we dare?"

"He's gonna see it anyway."

Killian sighs. "Fine, then. Let's get his opinion."

\---

It's Ian's first day back in his classroom since Christmas break ended. Emma's hoping for a good report from his teacher and a smile on Ian's face, a sign that he's happy his punishment is over.

What Emma's not expecting is to find Ian standing beside his teacher and his teacher holding their practice baby doll.

"Ah, fuck," Emma groans.

"Fuck indeed," Killian agrees under his breath.

Navigating the playground at dismissal is like running an American Gladiator obstacle course; Emma and Killian weave through the crowd of kids, dodging the small bodies that careen around like projectiles in a pinball machine—Emma even has to lean aside quickly as a backpack goes flying through the air.

They reach Ian and his teacher unscathed. Up close, Emma can see the woman's fighting a smile.

"Ian tried to bring this out to recess today," she says, handing over the doll.

Emma tucks it under her arm, grateful that they were all so weirded out by having a naked, anatomically-correct fake baby floating around the house that they bought some clothes for it.

"Sorry about that," Emma apologizes.

Ian's teacher waves a hand in polite dismissal. "It's not a big deal. It just—I don't know if you've seen what recess looks like here, but…let's just say that doll doesn't look like something that belongs on the playground."

"It's not something that's supposed to be brought to school at all," Emma says pointedly, eyes locked on Ian's.

He ducks his head and keeps his gaze on his shoes all the way to the car. Once they're all buckled in, Emma twists in her seat and offers Ian the doll.

"In the future, this thing stays at home, alright? It's not a toy."

Ian nods, then takes the doll from her and settles it in his lap the way you would a real baby.

Emma's caught him playing with it a few times before—not that he's forbidden to touch it, or anything, he was just told that it's for practicing with and not meant to be a stand-in goalie for knee hockey (which is a thing Emma had to clarify because that's exactly what he tried to use it for).

Mainly she just finds him…hanging out with the doll; it sits on the couch and watches him play video games, or Ian props it up and gives it some Legos to hold while he builds a pirate ship or a castle.

Twice Emma found Ian reading to it—once in his bed and once in Killian's chair—and those were the moments she knew he's ready to be a big brother, even if he doesn't think he's ready yet.

(Even if he's still worried the baby will change things, change his relationship with Killian.)

"When your sister's born," Emma says, turning back around in her seat, "please don't try to put her in your backpack and bring her to school."

Ian huffs.

\---

The clouds Killian painted are judged to be perfect, and not crooked at all.

\---

On Saturday night, Leo sleeps over.

Emma lays awake in bed, listening to the two boys giggle in Ian's room, where they're "sleeping" in the fort they made from some extra blankets and two of her kitchen chairs. Killian comes home at the usual hour and, as is his habit, checks on Ian. Emma hears him talking, not the words but the deep thrum of his voice, and he must have told the boys to go to bed because they're silent after that.

In the morning she makes French toast, because it's Leo's favorite. She drives him home at noon, then goes to the Apprentice's house.

Practicing her magic again feels good, like how exercise supposedly improves your mood and boosts your energy.

It's frustrating that she lost some of her stamina, and it throws her back to the early days, when moving her car keys from one place to another made her sweat. It took her a few days to feel comfortable doing the simple things again, but once she got over that hill she started working on harder bits of magic, like teleporting while moving and then with people and then with people while moving.

Her favorite thing to do is work with light itself. She never would have guessed that light could be so versatile, something that she could shape and sharpen, turn into a weapon or a restraint or just a _force_.

The newest project the Apprentice assigned her is making a _shield_ out of light.

So far all she's managed to do is make a transparent, shimmery wall, and everything the Apprentice tosses at it—books, an apple, a fireball—goes right through.

Sword-handling with Killian is next on her agenda.

They've been sparring in the warehouse by the docks in the morning after they drop Ian off at school, but on the weekends it's a family affair.

David pairs off with Henry—who was secretly taking fencing lessons at school to surprise Killian—while Will lets Ian and Roland take turns hacking away at him with their child-sized practice swords; Robin has Rowan off to the side with a bow in her hand, drawing the string back to her ear and holding it steady for increasingly longer counts.

Killian won't let anyone work with Emma except for him, not even David. He runs her systematically through the same drills, all defensive, gradually increasing the pace of the footwork, the strength behind his swings and thrusts.

"Good, Swan. Good," he murmurs.

Emma's not afraid he'll hurt her, not even by accident.

He aims either high or low but never in the middle, never even remotely near her belly. She sees his iron control, his readiness to peel back his attack the instant he thinks she won't be able to block or deflect.

She tires quickly. The warehouse is cold, the physical movement required setting off cramps in her pelvis if she's not careful enough.

But if she's going to wield Excalibur she's going to need to know how to actually wield it.

(Or at least have the arm strength to hold it upright for more than 10 seconds.)

At home, Emma drags her aching body upstairs to the shower, then dries her hair and crawls into bed for a nap. She sleeps deeply, and although she feels groggy when Killian gently shakes her awake two hours later, she's no longer sore all over.

"Hey," she mumbles.

"Morning, love," he teases.

"What time is it?" she asks, wrestling one hand out from beneath the tangle of blankets to rub at her eyes.

"5." He's dressed for work, waxed jeans and black waistcoat and a crisp, dark shirt with a subtle pattern that reminds Emma of fancy wallpaper. "Dinner's ready. Henry's setting the table and Ian's finishing up his homework."

"You didn't have to do that."

"I want you to relax tonight."

"You want me to just relax _every_ night."

"Is that so bad?"

She stretches carefully and sits up. She has to pee, because that's just her life now, but she's not ready to leave the warmth of the bed, so she leans sideways, into Killian.

"Stay home," she says.

He kisses her hair, whispers, "I wish I could."

There's more than just wistfulness in his voice—there's exhaustion, too.

Emma straightens and shifts slightly to face him, gaze falling immediately to the dark smudges beneath his eyes.

She lifts her hand to cup his cheek. "You need sleep, Killian. You're running yourself ragged trying to take care of me and Ian but you're not taking care of yourself."

"I'm fine, Swan."

"Bullshit."

He chuckles and covers her hand with his, halting the thumb she was tracing along the scar on his cheek. He stares at her for a long moment and she stares back doggedly, until he blinks and looks away.

"What's going on?" she asks.

"It's nothing, love. Just some nightmares."

"About what?"

He shakes his head.

"Killian," she presses. "Talking about them might help."

"I don't want to worry you, Swan."

"I'm already worried. And what's going to make me worry even more is you trying to hide this from me."

Her hand hasn't moved from his cheek, and he leans into it then, eyelids fluttering shut. He sighs, and goes still.

"I keep dreaming that we lose the baby—that the Black Fairy takes her."

An icy fist takes hold of Emma's heart and squeezes. "That's not gonna happen," she rasps, her voice suddenly gone hoarse and rough.

Killian grimaces, lips tugged to either side so violently that his teeth are bared, and then he's hugging her—or maybe she's hugging him—holding him, really, as he breathes too hard and too fast and he's been keeping it together entirely too well for her sake for a very long time and this might finally be it, this might finally be his breaking point.

"I don't-" His voice cracks, the edge of it catching on a sob. "I can't-"

Emma tightens her arms. "It's okay."

It occurred to her before, that they could lose—the fight, the baby. She doesn't know when it happened or how it happened but at some point she decided that they _wouldn't_ lose—as if it was a choice she could just make—and that made it easier.

_Believing in even the possibility of a happy ending is a powerful thing._

Her mom told her that once, way back Emma doesn't even remember when. It sounds like something you'd read in a self-help book, and Emma's really not into those but it stuck.

Snow and David might call it _hope_.

Emma likes to think of it as stubborn determination. The next time the Black Fairy shows up Emma's going to punch back and say no—_no, you cannot have this baby; no, you cannot hurt the people I love_.

Instinct kicks in and she starts swaying gently from side to side, her hand stroking Killian's hair, fingers digging deep to drag lightly along his scalp. He lets out a long, shaky breath, and shivers once before his body relaxes into hers.

Killian doesn't speak and Emma lets him be silent. If she needs to be the rock for a little while, she can be the rock; Killian deserves to rest.

She focuses instead on keeping her breathing even, half listening to Ian and Henry arguing over whether or not Henry should let Ian eat a meatball.

_"But I'm hungry!"_

_"You can wait five minutes."_

_"Noooooooooo!"_

Emma's on the verge of intervening when Killian takes a shuddering breath and turns his face into her hair.

"I'm sorry, love."

"You don't have to apologize," she whispers.

"No, Swan, I shouldn't-"

"Shouldn't what? Have emotions?"

He pulls away from her gently, looks at her seriously. "I'm trying to be strong for you."

"I don't need you to be strong _for_ me. I need you to be strong _with_ me." She returns her hand to his cheek and smiles. "We're best when we work together. Okay?"

Killian looks at her for a long moment, then he leans forward until their foreheads are touching and brings his hand to rest against her belly. "Okay."

He flexes his fingertips, and Emma feels something funny—a flutter.

She blinks, completely caught by surprise, a breathy, "_Oh_," escaping her lips.

Killian's brow furrows. "What is it?" He starts to pull his hand away but Emma grabs his wrist and holds it in place.

"I might have just felt the baby move," she hisses.

"Really?" he asks, eyes wide.

"Yea, don't get too excited though," she warns. "It might just be gas."

That makes him grin.

They sit there like that for a few more minutes, but the fluttering stopped.

"Next time, Swan," Killian says quietly, even though they both know it's too early for him to be able to feel it even if it was the baby.

"Next time," she agrees.

\---

Before Killian leaves for work, Emma manages to convince him to sleep in the next morning since it's Monday and Ian will be at school.

After Emma drops Ian off, she eats a bowl of plain oatmeal, a banana, two yogurts, and sneaks a few sips of coffee while she browses Pinterest on her phone, sitting hunched over at the kitchen table with one hand tapping the screen and the other hand operating a spoon.

It's nearly 10 and Emma's eating a PopTart—her reward for eating the oatmeal, she decided—when Killian finally joins her.

"How do you feel?" she asks.

"Like I got the extra three hours of sleep I needed," he rumbles warmly, yawning and scratching his chest. "What are you looking at?"

He leans over her shoulder, his body heat enveloping her and she's 100% certain he did it to be distracting.

(It's working.)

"Names," she replies, already beginning to forget what they're talking about.

"Oh?"

"Yea." They still debate names almost constantly. The pirate theme Ian suggested was a bust, a lot of Marys and some Annes and just…nothing that particularly intrigued either of them.

"Any new ones you like?"

"Sort of," she says.

"There are 'sort of' some names that you like?"

She tilts her head back, until his stubbly chin scratches her nose. "Are you sure you don't like alliteration?"

"Why do you ask?" His tone is obnoxiously_ knowing_.

"I was looking up the names of famous people with Jones as their last name-" Because that's how at-the-end-of-her-rope she is with this name search, because for some reason she's _super_ picky about girls' names- "and I found a bunch of 'J' names that actually sound really good paired with 'Jones'."

"Like?" he prompts.

"There's Junie B. Jones. Jessica Jones. January Jones. Juniper Jones-"

"You want to name our daughter_ Juniper_?"

"No!"

That one actually slipped out—in her search she stumbled across a book called _The Invincible Summer of Juniper Jones_, but the next result after that was a YouTube testimony from Juniper Jones the sex worker and that really killed it for her.

"I don't want to name the Bean any of those names specifically—what I'm saying is…I really like the _sound_ of their names."

Killian circles the table and takes the seat across from her. "Do you have any 'J' names you like in particular?"

"Maybe."

He drops his chin into his hand. "Would you like to share them?"

"Do you want all the 'J' names or just the ones I like?"

"Just the ones you like."

Emma bites her lip.

There are surprisingly few 'J' names for girls to begin with. Jane, Joan, and Jean are out, since they're _too_ close to Jones; Emma doesn't like Jasmine or Jocelyn or Josephine; and she knew too many Jennifers growing up.

There are, however, two that she does like.

Only…

"I'm not ready to tell you."

His eyebrows snap up, so quick Emma's certain they make an actual sound.

And then Killian leans back in his chair. "Alright, Swan," he says, grinning and folding his arms over his chest. "Keep your secrets."

"You're going to look up every 'J' name there is and start guessing, aren't you?"

His grin grows wider, gleeful. "Yep."

\---

In the afternoon, they go to the hospital for Emma's now-routine weekly anatomy scan.

Everything's still as fine as it can be.

Emma listens to Whale drone on about how she should start sleeping on her side instead of her back, be on the lookout for swollen hands and feet, and prepare for leg cramps; she's been through it all before, so she just nods every time he pauses and keeps her eyes on their Bean, currently the size of an artichoke and engaged in some interesting acrobatics inside her stomach that she _almost_ thinks she can feel.

Killian holds her hand the entire time, his thumb stroking her knuckles, his eyes glued to the monitor, an impossibly soft expression on his face.

* * *

On the way out, Killian happens across a rack mounted to the wall near the nurse's station that's full of informational pamphlets, all related to pregnancy, childbirth, and the care of infants. He hasn't noticed it before, and although he suspects he's read most of the information elsewhere, he takes one of each.

In the car, he pulls the wad of pamphlets from his jacket pocket and opens the topmost one: _Nutrition During Pregnancy_.

Emma pauses with the key halfway to the ignition. "When did you take those?"

In answer, Killian winks at her.

"Did you…do you think that you _stole_ those?"

"Well-" he starts.

"Killian, those are _free_ pamphlets. You could have just taken them."

"Technically I _did_ just take them."

She rolls her eyes, smiling. "You know that's not what I meant."

She drives to Granny's to meet Ruby, who picked Ian up from school for them. Inside the diner, Ruby and Robin are supervising the booth where Ian, Rowan, and Roland are splitting a basket of fries and drinking milkshakes.

Ian's sitting on the inside, next to the wall, and when he sees Emma and Killian enter the diner he slides underneath the table, crawls along the floor to bypass Roland, then pops to his feet and sprints to Killian, who braces himself for a pair of what must be absolutely filthy hands.

"Hey, dad?" Ian asks, wrapping said hands around Killian's waist.

"Aye, lad?" Killian responds, trying not to think about how Ian's hands seem to be sticking to his jacket.

"Can we get a dog?"

"What?" Killian casts a bewildered glance Ruby's way before turning his attention back to Ian's beaming face; he has his _I want something_ smile on full blast.

"I had to take him and Rowan to work with me for a little bit," Ruby confesses. "Sorry."

"Can we?" Ian wheedles. "Please?"

"Ian…" Killian huffs. "I don't think we can get a puppy right now."

"It doesn't have to be a puppy!" Ian exclaims. "It can be a _dog_."

"What's the difference?"

"A dog is already housetrained—so it wouldn't pee on the floor or chew on the furniture or anything!" Ian grins harder. "Please? I'll feed it and take it for walks and play with it and give it baths!"

Killian finds himself beginning to entertain the possibility when Emma's sharp voice cuts through his thoughts.

"Ian, stop trying to manipulate your dad," she says, then, to Killian. "And you, stop being so easily manipulated. Seriously, you're a pirate, how do you not see what he's doing?"

"He's not _manipulating_ me-"

But then he sees Ian's grin, the one that means he's laughing.

"You little-" He bites off the end of his sentence, and instead growls, "_Pirate_."

\---

Later, they're in the nursery, standing in their socks on the rug they just laid down. It's the same dark, bluish gray as the moon on the wall, patterned with white stars. The curtains are hung as well; they match the bedding Emma put on the registry, not the bright aqua Ian was hoping for but a softer, pastel version.

All that's missing is the furniture and all the smaller paraphernalia Emma expects them to receive at the baby shower on Saturday.

Downstairs, Ian, Henry, and Will are preparing tacos for dinner—a project orchestrated by Henry since Emma and Killian are finally having an outside-the-house date night.

(Killian spent the two hours Emma was training at the Apprentice's house on the Jolly Roger, readying his quarters for an evening of dinner and…entertainment.)

A timer goes off in the kitchen, a sound drowned out instantly by high-pitched, fake barking—Ian, imitating a dog.

Killian whirls towards Emma. "Why did he ask me and not you?"

Emma drags her eyes away from the curtains and blinks slowly at him. "What?"

"Ian. About getting a dog."

"Oh." She hesitates, brow furrowing. "I'll tell you if you want, but you might not like the answer."

Kilian grinds his teeth. "Does Ian think I'm more _gullible_ than you?"

Emma sighs. "Yes."

His mouth falls open in outrage, and he gapes at her speechlessly for a long moment before demanding, in a harsh whisper. "Well, am I?"

"Are you what?"

"Am I gullible?"

"In some ways, yes."

He makes another outraged noise in his throat. "In _what_ ways?"

"In lots of ways."

She smiles softly and goes up on her tiptoes to press a kiss to his nose—his mouth is still gaping and he's in too much shock to close it.

"I actually think it's kind of sweet," she says.

"You think it's sweet that the boy thinks I'm gullible?"

"No, I think it's sweet that you're so eager to have new experiences with him and make up for what you missed that you'll entertain all of his requests."

Killian scowls.

"Hey," Emma warns. "Don't start saying 'no' to him all the time now on principle just because you don't want him to think you're gullible. I didn't say you give in to all of his requests; I said you're willing to _entertain_ them. There's a difference."

He knows she's right, but he's not ready to admit it yet.

"Am I screwed, love?" he asks.

"What do you mean?"

"Will the Bean think I'm as gullible as Ian does?"

"Probably, yea." She lifts her hand to his face and runs her fingers lightly down his cheek. "So, are we getting a dog?"

Heat creeps up his neck and he looks away. "Perhaps after the Bean is born," he says, already knowing full well that by _perhaps_ he means _definitely_.


	26. Chapter 26

"Do you guys need help?" Emma asks.

"No!" Killian barks.

"We're fine, mom," Henry says, in a calmer tone. "Really."

"Uh, are you sure? Because that does not look like a crib."

"It's not finished yet," Killian growls.

"It's been two hours-"

Killian jerks his head up and glares, and there must be something of how frazzled he feels in the look because although Emma clamps her mouth shut and sucks her lips behind her teeth her eyes are glittering with amusement.

"Alright, let me see," she says, striding into the nursery and stepping with exaggerated care over the pieces of wood and bits of metal scattered across the star-spangled rug; she plucks the instructions from Henry's hands and carries them into the corner, where she sits in the rocking chair that—thankfully—did not require assembly.

Killian and Henry exchange weary glances while Emma reads, squinting at the tiny print.

"Is this even in English?" she mutters.

"It is," Killian sighs. "Though frankly it would be far easier to decode if it were in Ancient Greek."

And that's saying something, considering how rusty his Ancient Greek is.

"It says…" Emma pauses, brow furrowing. "Take screws E with washers D through bar C using wrench F, which is…not provided. _Not provided_? What the fuck?"

"Maybe we should call Marco," Henry suggests.

"Marco?" Killian says. "The woodcarver? What use would a woodcarver be?"

"Well, the crib is_ made_ of wood."

Emma snorts. "I don't think a 4-in-1 convertible crib from a department store is woodcarver territory. I put together all of our IKEA furniture back in Boston so technically I'm the most qualified one here. And anyway, it looks like all we really need is this stupid missing wrench."

"Any chance you can make it magically appear, love?"

"If I knew what it looked like or where it was…"

"Maybe Marco has a wrench we can use?" Henry suggests, pointedly.

Killian scrubs a hand through his hair. "Perhaps this can wait, love. The Bean won't even be sleeping in this crib until she's a few months old anyway."

Both Emma's experience and Killian's research agreed that the baby should sleep in their room with them for the first few months, and since the crib is entirely too large for that they purchased a bassinet.

Emma shrugs. "I want everything to be ready for tomorrow."

Tomorrow is the baby shower.

Emma was worried that their friends might feel pressured by the registry to spend a lot of money, so they bought the big things themselves: the crib, a rocking chair, a dresser, and a changing table, all in matching white.

Snow and David insisted on taking care of the stroller, car seat, carrier, and bouncy chair, so all that's left is the dizzying array of smaller items that babies require, such as pacifiers and bottles, a diaper bag, baby monitor, bibs and blankets…

(The list is endless.)

"Let's take a break," Killian says.

Henry puts down the two pieces of wood he was holding. "I'm starving."

"It's probably time for dinner."

The sky outside the nursery window was a crystalline blue when he and Henry started the crib, but now it's dark. Killian's about to stand when Ian slouches into the room.

"Are you guys done yet?" he moans. "You've been in here _forever_."

"Maybe try helping us next time," Henry snaps. 

Ian grimaces as if what Henry proposed is distasteful, then he collapses dramatically into Killian's lap. Killian blinks down at the boy draped across his thighs with his arms and legs flung out, the boy staring blankly back up at him.

"Can I help you?" Killian asks.

"Are you guys done?" he whines, every syllable dripping with vexation.

"I'll answer that," Killian says slowly, "if you ask me in a normal voice."

Killian sees a flicker of stubborn defiance cross Ian's face, that fire inside of him pushing back instinctively against an order; his lips compress for the barest instant, but then he intones, "Are you guys done yet?"

"Aye, lad, we're done."

"Will you play with me?"

"I think we're about to start making dinner."

"Can you play with me after?"

"I have to go to work."

Ian frowns. "If I had a dog it could play with me."

Killian closes his eyes, sends a prayer to the gods for patience; he's uncertain what the jab was intended to imply, that the amount of time Killian spends playing with Ian is unsatisfactory or that if Ian had a puppy he could play with the puppy when Killian is unavailable and therefore it's Killian's fatherly duty to provide said puppy.

He assumes it's the latter, but it hardly matters as Killian already came to a decision concerning the acquisition of a canine.

"I told you we'll get a puppy when the time is right," he says.

He didn't have to explain to Ian what the "right time" meant, Ian understood that it referred to _after—_after the Black Fairy, after their lives return to normal.

"Guilt-tripping me won't make the puppy appear any sooner," he adds.

_Nor will all the drawings of dogs on Post-it notes you've been leaving around for me._

(Killian's found them everywhere: stuck to his books, tucked away in his wallet, taped to the shower curtain—he even found one sandwiched in between two folded pairs of his underwear.)

"What _will_ make it appear sooner?" Ian asks, grinning with his tongue caught between his teeth.

"Perhaps if you let me tickle you…" He wiggles his fingers against the sensitive skin behind the boy's knee. Ian howls and yanks his leg out of Killian's grasp, then springs to his feet and races to Emma; he throws his arms around her neck and glowers at Killian, who grins back.

Emma hugs Ian and kisses his cheek, and Killian would have to be blind as well as one-handed not to notice the urgency in the tightness of her embrace.

They're currently caught in a bubble, a moment of quiet that could shatter any second.

In a week, Emma will re-forge Excalibur, she'll train, and then they're going to pick a fight with the Black Fairy, force her into the Final Battle on _their _terms.

And although Killian knows that both he and Emma will fight with everything they've got, neither of them can predict how things will end.

It makes him sigh and say, "Alright, lad. I'll play with you before dinner."

(Also, he refuses to have his role usurped by a bloody dog.)

\---

Killian returns home from the bar later that night and finds Emma in the nursery, sitting in the rocking chair wrapped in a blanket. He can't tell if she's asleep or not until she smiles and says, "Hey."

Against the wall, right beneath the painting of the crescent moon hung with stars, is the finished crib. Killian stares at it.

"How…?"

"Henry and Ian did it," Emma explains.

"What about the wrench?"

"Henry found a pair of plyers in the shed and made it work—we should probably double check the screws before we actually put the baby in there, but for now it's fine."

Killian's a little disappointed he wasn't able to complete the crib himself, but overwhelmingly he just feels…proud.

Then he lifts a brow and smirks. "Did Ian actually help?"

"Yea. He held the pieces in place while Henry tightened the screws and stuff—I have photo evidence, don't worry."

Killian crosses the nursery, leans down and kisses her hair.

"Wow," she says, with a giggle—which is when Killian remembers that he had beer accidentally spilled all down his front, courtesy of an aggressively gesturing young man who gestured his lager right into Killian's chest as Killian passed by on his way to replace a blown keg.

"My apologies, love," he says. "Is it bad?"

"It's…strong."

He sighs and helps ease her out of the rocking chair. "I think perhaps I should start keeping a spare change of clothes in the office."

"Probably not a bad idea."

They go to their room and Killian showers. He exits the bath with a towel wrapped around his waist, and he's only just stepped from tile to carpet when Emma appears and drags his face down to hers for a kiss before he even has a chance to comprehend what's happening.

She drags her fingers up his chest and he lets go of the towel to tangle his fingers in her hair; the towel falls and suddenly her hand is wrapped around him, coaxing him swiftly to readiness.

His head is spinning from her kisses and from the ministrations of her hand. His awareness narrows to the scrape of her teeth along his bottom lip, the heat of her tongue, her thumb pressing against the tip of his cock, swirling the bead of moisture there.

She walks him backwards, leading him to the bed. He expects her to pull him onto it but instead she sits, hands trailing down his hips to his thighs, and takes him into her mouth.

He gasps, the sudden warmth and wetness sending a thrill up his spine. It's a struggle to keep his hips still and his knees from folding, his fingers from gripping her hair _too_ tightly.

"_Emma_," he hisses, which is all the warning he's able to muster before he's spilling his seed into her mouth. She swallows around him, and when he slides out of her mouth she licks her lips.

It's the dirtiest thing he's ever seen and it's enough to make him hard again.

"Lie back, Swan," he growls.

She smirks, and obeys.

Killian kneels on the floor and guides her legs over his shoulders. He takes his time, reciprocating, demonstrating his skill as much as she demonstrated hers, relishing the taste of her, the room filled with the soft noises escaping her trembling lips.

He strokes himself in time with the movements of his tongue, increasing the pace when he hears the telltale hitch of breath, feels the tension in her thighs…

"Killian," she groans, sucking in a sharp breath through clenched teeth, her back arcing. She lets out a strangled moan and Killian squeezes his eyes shut and stifles his own groan against her core as he finds his release a second time.

\---

He sleeps soundly and without nightmares, and he wakes up on Saturday morning feeling more rested and satisfied than he has in weeks.

Unfortunately, they forgot to set an alarm and they're running late for hockey, so the remainder of the morning is hectic. Killian expends most of his energy getting Ian ready, because Ian's too dizzy with excitement to be trusted with even the most basic of tasks.

(Leo joined his hockey team, and today is their first game together.)

After Ian's hockey bag is checked, double-checked, and triple-checked—by Henry, Will, and Killian, in sequence—they drive to the rink.

In the stands, they sit beside Jack and Jill Wellesley, Leo's adoptive parents.

Emma was worried that their group—consisting of her parents, Will, Sarah, Ruby and Belle, Rowan and Roland—might overwhelm the couple, but it turns out they're very friendly and quite chatty.

Killian lets the others handle the socializing and watches the game, Will providing a muttered, running commentary in his ear.

Leo's by far the wobbliest and most bewildered of the bunch, having only a week's worth of practice under his belt, but whenever Ian's on the ice with him Ian skates close to his friend and passes him the puck.

Twice Ian purposefully knocked another child to the ground in defense of Leo—or, more accurately, to clear the way for Leo—and twice Ian was put (smiling) into the penalty box.

Once, Ian very stubbornly kept a play alive purely so Leo could score, doggedly retrieving every rebounded puck from the goalie only to deliver it directly back to Leo until Leo eventually found the net.

(At which point Will leapt to his feet and let rip with the airhorn.)

They leave the rink with a playdate scheduled for Ian and Leo on Monday after school, Ian shouting across the parking lot that Leo should bring his skates and his stick.

"And your helmet!" Emma says, then adds, in an undertone, "I don't need to be responsible for anybody's head cracking open like a watermelon in my backyard."

"Nonsense," Will argues. "I've had my fair share of concussions and I can assure you, that's not how heads work."

"You know, the more I learn about you, Scarlet, the more everything just…makes sense."

Will scowls. "Because of that, you can forget about your shower gift—I'll just keep that diaper bag for meself."

"You wear _diapers_?" Ian laughs.

"That's what happens when you get old," Will laments. "Just ask your da-"

He's cut short as Killian takes him roughly by the arm, shoves him into the car, and slams the door.

* * *

The baby shower starts at 1. Emma, Killian, Henry, and Ian arrive early to help finish setting up.

Emma climbs the stairs with dread. She hadn't _really_ considered what she was getting into when she gave her mom free rein over the shower, but now—with the party a half hour away—all the horrible possibilities are flashing before her eyes like some sort of baby-shower-themed near-death experience.

Her first glimpse of the loft is pretty much her worst fears confirmed. Everything is rainbow, as (Ian) requested, but on closer inspection, Emma realizes that Snow twisted the theme into a play on the word "shower".

There are clouds everywhere, some made of paper, some made of what looks like stuffed animal filling; some are smiling, some are trailing streams of rainbow-colored raindrops. There are white fabric umbrellas with lace fringe suspended from the ceiling and propped on the tables, clusters of rainbow-colored balloons—including clear ones with rainbow confetti trapped inside—and, the crowning achievement, a balloon arch in the shape of a rainbow hovering just behind the couch, where Emma's assuming she and Killian will sit to open their gifts.

For a second Emma's speechless, totally stunned by the sheer enormity of what she's seeing. It's too extravagant, too far beyond what she would have done if she had done it herself.

She can't say she _likes_ it, but she understands where it's coming from, that same place of infinite love and sadness that has Killian Googling "how to take care of a puppy" at 2 in the morning and surprising Ruby on her lunch break with a list of questions he has that he wants answered by a "live person" with "animal experience".

And that's why Emma's able to turn to her mom and say with utter sincerity, "Mom, it's amazing. Thank you."

Snow hugs her so tightly and for so long that she starts wondering what the effects of oxygen deprivation on a fetus are and why she never Googled it—Ian's her literal savior when he tugs on her shirts and whispers, "_Can I have one of the cookies?_"

Her mom flinches and steps back, sniffling audibly.

Emma turns to Ian. "You can have one," she says, then frowns. "Where'd you get that shirt?"

Ian grins. "Grandpa gave it to me! Henry has one too!"

Lo and behold, standing behind Ian is Henry, wearing the same _Big Brother_ t-shirt as Ian but without the enthusiasm.

"We have something for you, too," David says. He's holding a long, pink ribbon.

"Dad, no-" Emma croaks, but David's already placing the sash that reads, "It's a Girl!" over her head.

When Emma shifts her glare from the sash to her dad—she accepts this sort of thing from her mom but from her dad it's a betrayal—she sees Killian with a matching rosette ribbon pinned to his shirt pocket.

"Wait until you see what we have for the guests to wear!" Snow exclaims. She darts off to the bedroom and disappears behind the curtain that separates it from the rest of the loft.

"Trust me, you'll appreciate that sash a lot more when you see the hats she bought for everyone else," David informs her in a low voice.

And he's right.

Snow returns with one hat on her head and several gathered in her arms. They're your typical cone-shaped party hats, only with a gauzy veil trailing from the tip, like a miniature version of what a medieval princess would wear. They match Emma's sash and Killian's ribbon, pink with "It's a Girl!" printed on them in gold.

"Aren't they _perfect_?" Snow asks, beaming.

The force of the sigh Emma withholds nearly bruises her ribs, but she reminds herself that she told her mom to do whatever she wanted, so she has only herself to blame.

"They're cute, mom," she says, and—figuring she may as well just go balls out at this point—she takes one and puts it on.

* * *

The loft is as crowded as it was for Christmas Eve. Emma told him that baby showers are traditionally attended only by women, but Snow also invited the Merry Men and the Apprentice, and everyone—men included—is cheerfully sporting a party hat.

Liam's there. He's not wearing a hat and he dodges Ian whenever Ian materializes at his side with one, grinning maniacally; Killian's pretty sure it's a game, and Will seems to be egging it on.

For two hours they eat and drift amongst their guests. Killian sticks to Emma's side as much as he can, defending her against the onslaught of attention that she's enduring with a bright smile for her mother's sake.

There are various competitions, including a "guess the baby food" game with 10 flavors, a diapering race—won by Alec's wife Olivia, with Belle coming in a close second—and one particularly gruesome activity involving guessing the correct candy bar that Snow melted and smeared in a diaper.

(Roland demolished the competition, being the only one brave enough to apply his taste buds to the game.)

Killian's just coming down from having checked on what the kids were doing upstairs when Ruby sidles up next to him and says, "I've got news."

"Oh?" he asks.

"One of the dogs at the shelter just gave birth."

"Okay…"

She looks at him sharply—and like he's stupid. "Well, in two months her puppies will be ready for adoption."

"Ah," Killian says, realizing. Then, "What kind of puppies?"

"The mom is some sort of…pointer, blue heeler mix."

He's unfamiliar with both breeds, but he makes a mental note to investigate both to ensure they're child-friendly. "And the father?"

Ruby's face scrunches. "I'm pretty sure Pongo's the dad—he gets around."

"Pongo? Archie's dog?"

"Yea. Archie doesn't believe me, but…" She shakes her head. "Pongo runs away all the time, and I've seen enough spotted puppies around town to suspect what he gets up to when he does."

"It's sounds as though Pongo's a bit of a rake."

"Laugh all you want, but all it does is create a whole boatload of puppies with nowhere to go."

She raises an eyebrow pointedly, and Killian's amusement evaporates.

"What are you proposing?"

"I was thinking you could bring Ian to the shelter and have him out a puppy. He can't take it home right away, but he can visit until it's safe to separate it from the litter."

Killian nods. "Thank you."

"Thank _you_ for helping me clean up after Pongo." She lifts her drink to her lips—something pink in a mason jar—and mutters what sounds distinctly like a string of expletives.

"Perhaps Archie could have Pongo neutered?" Killian suggests.

"Believe me, I've considered doing it myself."

"What's stopping you?"

"Opportunity."

Will, who's been using Killian and Ruby to hide from sight while he pours something from a flask into his and Liam's mason jars, mumbles, "Yikes."

Ruby narrows her eyes. "Something to contribute, Scarlet?"

"No, it's just…remind me never to come near you when you're holding scissors."

"You have to hit puberty before you can be neutered," Ruby says sourly. "I don't think you qualify yet."

Liam snorts into his drink and then blushes when Ruby looks his way. Her gaze rake him up and down, and then slides slyly to Will, who flushes bright red.

(If Killian hadn't already suspected there was something going on between Will and Liam, he would have started suspecting right then.)

They're interrupted by a tray of rainbow cupcakes thrust into their midst. "Cupcake?" Snow asks. "Ian ate all the little rainbows off of them, but they're still good!"

Killian blinks. The cupcakes have thick swirls of white frosting and two little indentations each indicating where a strip of rainbow-colored sour candy had formed an arch. Killian sighs, then turns towards the stairs.

"Where are you going?" Snow says.

"To see if Ian still has any teeth left."

\---

At 3, they're called to the living room area for gifts.

Emma wanted Henry and Ian—mostly Ian—to feel involved, so Henry's job is to record every gift and the name of the person who gave it (so they can send the appropriate 'Thank You' cards later), and Ian's job is carrying all the gifts Emma opens to his grandparent's bedroom, so they're out of the way.

(It's not a very important job, but it keeps Ian in the center of things.)

In December, Killian deliberated for days before finally selecting a Christmas gift for the baby.

It was difficult, what with not knowing the Bean's sex, and he spent far more time than he cares to admit wandering the Infant & Toddler section of the town's one department store.

He desperately wanted to buy a stuffed animal, the one that would be as precious to the baby as One-Eyed Jim and Roger are to Ian, but it seemed presumptuous—he doesn’t know _who_ the Bean is yet, or whether she'll adore sea creatures like Ian or prefer unicorns or rabbits or perhaps even elephants.

In the end, Killian decided on the pajamas, because he read that newborns spend most of their time sleeping and someone who sleeps a lot obviously needs pajamas.

By doing so, however, he seems to have inadvertently chosen the baby’s “theme”.

(Because babies have themes in this realm, apparently.)

Everything Emma chose to decorate the nursery has moons, clouds, or stars on it: bedding, crib mobile, changing pad, nightlight—even the playmat and the bouncy chair.

Killian trailed Emma through the store, stopping whenever she stopped, listening to her explanation for adding this pacifier or that set of bottles to the registry, smiling in amusement because it was clear she had done her research—_a lot_ of research.

(She never said as much, but Killian gathers that she wasn't able to do this with Ian.)

The only alteration he requested was the result of his own research: a basin bathtub with a sling.

"You don't wanna do the sink insert?" she asked. "It's way easier than the basin."

In answer, Killian brandished his hook. "It's for my benefit, love," he said. "If you'd like to get both then get both, but I think the sling will work better for me."

"Nope, we're getting the basin."

It meant something to him, her willingness to adapt for his sake.

He hadn't expected the same level of thoughtfulness from their friends, but nearly every gift Emma and Killian open is accompanied by an explanation of how its specifications benefit Killian.

The diaper bag Will bought, for example, is Velcro, as are the swaddle blankets from Robin. David demonstrates how the stroller can be folded one-handed, and Snow points out the single-button release on the car seat.

Every instance fills him, as though he's an empty glass and each gift is a drop of water.

From Liam, they receive a bulky package that Emma unwraps to reveal a stack of board books.

"Will told me that you read to Ian every night." Liam pauses, swallows. "The boy at the library—your boy-"

"Henry," Killian says.

"Right. Henry." Liam looks at Henry—sitting off to the side with a notepad perched on his knee—then away; then he looks at Emma and away again. "He made a list for me—of books. For babies. He said these are the best ones. The-"

"The classics," Henry provides, with a grin.

Emma examines the books one at a time, passing them each to Killian as she does.

_Goodnight Moon. The Very Hungry Caterpillar. Corduroy. Pat the Bunny_. _Dear Zoo_. _Guess How Much I Love You._

Henry leans forward and snatches _Goodnight, Gorilla _out of Killian's hand, shows it to Ian. "Remember this one?"

They put their heads together and flip through the pages. Killian stands and wades through the unopened gifts to clasp Liam's hand.

"Thank you, mate."

Liam nods, smiles in a shy way, and then Killian does something completely unplanned: he pulls Liam by the forearm into a hug. Liam grunts, probably in surprise, perhaps also because Killian's embrace is crushing. Killian claps him once on the back and steps away, intensely aware of how rigid Liam is standing.

The moment could have gotten awkward, or emotional; Liam's eyes are wide and he's apparently too stunned to speak, but Emma's quiet voice breaks the tension.

"You'll have to read these to her when you babysit," she says.

Liam jolts, and then blanches. "Babysit?"

Killian chuckles. "Aye, babysit. _Uncle_ Liam."

* * *

It's only 5 o'clock when they finally get home, but to Emma it feels like midnight. Killian, Henry, Will, and David carry everything into the house, and then Killian and Will scarf down some leftovers from the fridge and dash to the bar.

Emma sits in the nursery with all the boxes and gift bags, sorting through everything that requires washing.

It's obviously not urgent, but she can't help it, she wants to see all the little clothes and the bibs and the blankets, admire everything without a hundred people watching her—the party was really nice and Emma's glad they did it and she's going to have to find a way to communicate all that to her mom, but she's also relieved to be back home.

She's halfway finished when Henry and Ian join her.

Ian's carrying the practice doll, and he brings it to the crib and sets it inside—he has to go up on his tiptoes to reach over the bar, and he has to drop the doll a bit at the end, but Emma's fairly certain it's the thought that counts.

Henry sits cross-legged next to her and picks up a pink onesie. "I can't believe we're gonna have a little sister," he murmurs.

"I thought that's what you wanted?" Emma says, unfolding a pair of pajamas patterned with yellow ducklings. "You specifically said '_Thank God, I didn't really want another brother_'."

"Well, yea, I _don't_ want another brother. I just meant it's gonna be weird seeing a bunch of like…little girl things all over the place."

Emma puts the pajamas in the pile with other, similarly colored items and lets out a deep breath. "Yea," she agrees.

A little girl will alter the landscape of the house dramatically. Emma's used to Henry and Ian and all their boy things, video games and action figures and those stupid Nerf bows; the Bean could be all tea parties and dress up and Barbies.

(Emma sort of doubts that, given what she and Killian saw of her in the future, but still.)

Satisfied that the doll is situated comfortably in the crib, Ian trots to the rug and sits in Emma's lap; he has to sit sideways to fit, but he doesn't seem to mind sharing her lap with her belly.

"I like that one," he says, pointing to a bib in the 3-pack she's opening, a pink one with a bunny face printed on it.

Emma kisses his hair, a thick lock of it that sweeps across his forehead. "Me too."

They're all quiet for a while, the boys keeping Emma silent company. Henry helps, Ian observes passively with his head resting on her shoulder, and Emma just smiles to herself.


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Sorry, life's been stressful.)

The snow crackled and crunched beneath Emma's boots. "Are you sure this is right?" she asks, raising her eyes from the narrow path of other people's footprints she's following to squint through the skeletal winter trees at the crystal-clear blue sky. "It's daytime. The moon isn't even out yet."

From the portico of her vault, Regina _tsks_ loudly.

Emma's spine snaps straight and she glares. Her arms, already wrapped snugly around her middle, tighten. After 3 weeks of anticipating what she assumed would be a highly dramatic re-forging of Excalibur—you know, something pagan and possibly involving nudity—it was a bit anticlimactic to discover that the new moon is at its highest point not at midnight but at noon.

"It's out, mom," Henry says patiently from behind her. "We just can't see it because it's between the sun and the earth."

"Yea, yea," Emma huffs. It's not the first time Henry's tried to explain. Killian tried too, and it's not that Emma doesn't believe them, it's just that she has trouble picturing how exactly it all works.

(She guesses it would be easier for her if she had paid more attention in school.)

And speaking of school…

"Hey," Emma says over her shoulder, just glimpsing Henry's brown hair past the fur of her own hood. "Aren't you supposed to be in class right now?"

Henry's taking online courses, courtesy of being trapped in Storybrooke behind a massive, magical wall, and Emma's pretty sure that this time last week he was on his computer with his discussion group.

"No, not today," Henry replies mildly.

_Too mildly_.

Ian chuckles, which is pretty rich coming from a kid who was so desperate to tag along this morning that he made himself throw up. Emma and Killian grudgingly allowed him to stay home—but only because they were both certain he'd pull the same stunt _at_ school if they made him go, and they can't risk missing the new moon's peak and having to wait an entire month for another opportunity to re-forge Excalibur.

Emma pushes aside how annoyed she is at her truant children and trudges up to Regina's vault. Her parents, Sarah, and the Apprentice are already inside, where the air is warmer, but not by much.

Regina leads them below, and then along a surprisingly lofty hallway to a room that Emma's never noticed—not that she ever tries very hard to notice _anything_ in Regina's vault.

(In fact, she usually focuses explicitly on _not_ noticing.)

The room is circular, bare except for the torches standing at intervals against the walls and a stone plinth. Resting atop the plinth are Excalibur, the Dark One's dagger, and the Flame of Prometheus.

Emma takes a deep breath as she enters the room and forces her arms to her sides. She's nervous, but trying hard not to be, trying not to think about the name still inscribed on the dagger, or what will happen if this fails.

(If _she_ fails.)

The others spread out; Killian remains at her side, his hook arm circling her waist, his hand fisted in the back of Ian’s coat, keeping him close. Regina disappears and then reappears with a smoking smudge stick—Emma recognizes the sweet, woody smell.

_Myrrh, to ward off evil._

Despite the heat from the torches, a shiver crawls up Emma’s spine. “Is that gonna keep the Black Fairy from spying on us?” she asks.

Regina shrugs. “There’s only one way to find out,” she says archly, and begins walking the perimeter of the room, tracing patterns in the air with the smudge stick.

Ian turns his face up to them, brows pinched. “She can’t get in here, can she?”

Killian stiffens, Emma opens her mouth, reaching in vain for some sort of reassurance.

“No, sweetie, she can’t,” Sarah soothes. “We’re safe.”

Ian looks from Sarah to Emma, waits for her smile, then he sets his jaw and nods, but subtly presses closer to Killian.

It takes Regina several minutes to finish, to saturate the room with earthy smoke that smells faintly of plums; it’s strong but pleasant, and Emma finds herself drinking it in, as if the smoke itself can fortify her for what’s about to happen.

“Whenever you’re ready, Emma,” the Apprentice says softly. He has Merlin's hat, the miniature, swirling galaxy inside of it a faint flicker.

Regina hands Sarah the smudge stick and Sarah gives Emma a bracing smile as she carries the smudge stick past her to the doorway, where she stands facing the dark hallway beyond. She’ll be their first line of defense if the Black Fairy _does_ try to interfere.

Emma sheds her coat and lays it over the arm that Killian proffers.

"You can do this, love," he murmurs. Emma lifts her eyes to his, finds him staring steadily back. He's not lying. He really believes in her. He wants her to believe in herself—she _needs_ to believe in herself if this is going to work.

Emma takes another deep breath, gathering herself, turning inwards, blocking out everyone and everything in the room except for Excalibur and the dagger and the thrum she feels in her bones when she looks at them; the sound they make, that subtle song, is definitely just in her ears.

She approaches the plinth. The hum grows louder, as if in anticipation, nearly deafening her to the Apprentice's, "Three minutes to noon."

Emma thinks she says, "Okay," but she's not sure; her focus is glued to the plinth.

Someone separated the dagger from its handle. It's lying in its rightful place, lined up with the broken edge of Excalibur.

_Neal Cassidy._ Emma glimpses the name without meaning to and flinches.

_Fuck, fuck, fuck._

Her gaze skips away from the sword, settles first on the elaborate array of symbols etched into the stone beneath the sword, and then on the copper box containing the Flame of Prometheus.

Silently, she recites the instructions the Apprentice gave her.

_First, light the Flame._

This part Emma was able to practice. She opens the box mechanically, guided by muscle memory, and lets her hand hover over the lumpy rock within for a moment before twisting her wrist. It feels like flipping some sort of invisible, magical switch. The ember ignites instantly, warming her knuckles.

_Second, extract the fire._

She curls her fingers and raises her fist, _pulling_. The flame climbs higher, thinning and stretching until a portion of it rips away and a molten ball of fire jumps into Emma's hands, clinging to her fingers, drawn to the magic there like a bee to nectar.

"One minute," the Apprentice warns.

Emma's heart gives a nervous, skittery beat. She struggles to remember the next step, the words slippery as a fish in her mind.

_Third…_

Emma grits her teeth.

_Third…_

"Shit," she hisses.

"Relax, love," Killian says, his voice nearer than it should be—everyone's supposed to be standing back, giving her and the magic she's about the unleash space; the Apprentice stands the closest, Merlin's hat at the ready to absorb that magic.

There's a gentle chorus of voices around the room, Killian again, Henry, Ian, her parents, Sarah. Encouraging her. Calming her, helping her thoughts settle.

_Third, light the sword._

She practiced this part as well, torching countless unfortunate tree branches in the Apprentice's backyard. She moves her hand to the dagger's tip and tilts it, pouring the fire from her cupped palm. She drags her hand towards the pommel, the fire moving like liquid, dripping onto the blade and engulfing it.

"NOW!" the Apprentice bellows.

_Lastly, grab Excalibur and brace yourself._

Emma plunges both of her hands into the flames licking the sword and grasps the handle. She didn't practice this part, but the Apprentice told her what to expect: the symbols inscribed on the plinth will guide the ritual, and Excalibur will take from her what it needs to fix itself.

All she needs to do is hold on.

The metal is hot but not unbearably so; what hurts is the vibration that started the moment she touched the sword. Her hands go numb immediately. She stares at her fingers, willing them to stay closed, not sure if she could even open them if she tried.

And then Excalibur seizes her magic.

It feels like a stopper is pulled inside of her and all her power begins draining from her like water out of a bathtub.

She groans at the sensation—

_Fuck this._

—but holds on.

The jagged seam between the two broken pieces of the sword is glowing white-hot. Emma closes her eyes against it, squeezes them tight. Her arms are totally numb all the way up to her elbows now, and her biceps are aching from the strain. Another low, pained sound escapes her.

"Hold on!" the Apprentice orders.

Emma clenches every muscle in her body she can still feel.

"Just a little longer, love!" Killian calls.

"You've got this, Emma!" David adds.

"We're right here, Emma!" Snow says. "Hang on, baby!"

"Go, mom!"

Emma doesn't have a chance to laugh at Ian cheering her on like this is a soccer game. Just as the pain in her arms reaches a crescendo there's a blast—a wave of magic erupts from the sword and she's lifted off of her feet and thrown backwards, choking on her own scream.

Everything goes black, and then bright white. She never lands, she's merely standing again, as if she never moved in the first place, and when she opens her eyes a familiar scene greets her.

_The frozen lake._

Emma's mouth drops open. "What…?"

"Hello."

She whirls around. Standing a few feet behind her is a man wearing a leather tunic and a long, hooded robe that both look as if they were cast from bronze.

Emma sets her feet, ready to fight her way out of whatever this is if necessary. "Who're you?"

The man reaches up to lower his hood, revealing a youthful face shadowed by day-old stubble. "My name is Merlin."

"Bullshit," she says flatly. She can tell she took him by surprise by how fast his eyebrows climb his forehead, and it's his genuine shock that makes her believe him. Emma straightens, and offers him an apologetic smile. "Sorry."

Merlin returns her smile softly, but there's a wicked smirk in his eyes. "You were expecting someone a bit—"

"Older," Emma blurts.

He grins and clasps his hands at his waist. "Ah yes, I believe your world got my appearance just as wrong as they did your Captain's. If you were hoping for a long, white beard, I'm sorry to disappoint you."

Emma snorts. "It's fine, just…" She exhales and looks around. "I'm not dead, am I?"

She asks before she fully realizes all the implications of that possibility, and as soon as the question leaves her mouth she gasps sharply and presses both hands to her stomach.

_If Emma's dead, then…_

"You're not dead," Merlin assures her quickly.

"Then what is this?"

"This is a memory."

"A memory?"

"Yes. Of me. One that Excalibur has held onto for a very long time."

Emma frowns. "I don't understand."

"Right before I died, I transferred a piece of my soul into Excalibur—"

"Like a Horcrux?" Emma asks, wrinkling her nose.

Merlin pauses, head tilting, expression clouding, then he blinks and says, "Yes, exactly like a Horcrux—only my intention was not to ensure my immortality, but to secure the passing on of my legacy."

"Oh." She shifts on her feet, suddenly uncomfortable. "So this is like…a passing the torch thing?"

She really doesn't need any more responsibility than she already has, but if Merlin is going to impart some sort of secret wisdom and tell her how to defeat the Black Fairy, she's down.

"It is," Merlin says. "Unfortunately, Excalibur was never meant for you."

"What?"

"It is not _your_ destiny to face the Black Fairy."

"Then whose is it?"

"Your son's."

Emma shakes her head. "No."

_No, no, no._

_Absolutely not._

"I'm afraid so," Merlin continues. "At least, it _was_." Here, his voice becomes grave. "The Black Fairy was awakened far too early. Ian's not ready."

"I _know_—"

"Emma, _you_ are now the only thing that stands in between the Darkness and the world of light. If you cannot defeat her, then nothing will stop her from unleashing the Dark Realm on all of existence."

"I'm not strong enough," she protests.

How is she supposed to beat the Black Fairy if fucking _Merlin_ couldn't?

"You will have to _be_ strong enough," Merlin insists. "For your family."

It feels like a sucker punch, but as pissed as Emma is, as much as she wants to set fire to this stupid lake and stupid Merlin and stupid _everything_, as much as she wants to scream that it's not fair, that she didn't ask for this, she knows he's right.

Despite her acceptance, tears spill down her cheeks. She closes her eyes, let's out a shuddering, "I can't keep doing this my whole life."

Something touches her jaw, gently. "You won't have to, Emma. I promise."

The light pressing against her eyelids dims.

"I'm sorry, Emma," Merlin whispers. "I truly am. Give Bedwyr my greetings. He's grown into a fine man…"

Everything goes black again. Emma's knees abruptly give out and she sinks towards the ice, but before she hits the ground hands grab her by the armpits.

Her eyes fly open. She's back in Regina's vault, being eased onto her ass by Killian and her dad. Emma hears something metallic scrape against stone and looks down.

Lying across her lap is Excalibur, whole and gleaming.

Killian kneels beside her, one leg supporting her back. "Are you alright, love?"

"I'm fine," she says. "What happened?"

"You almost fell." He's staring at her like he's trying to see through her, the crease between his brows deepening by the second. "Emma, are you _certain_ you're alright? You look as if you saw a—"

"Ghost," the Apprentice interjects, beaming. Tucked beneath his arm is Merlin's hat, shimmering slightly more brightly than before.

Emma glances from the hat to the Apprentice, a cold anger settling like a stone in her gut. "I want to talk to the fairies. _Now_."


	28. Chapter 28

Convincing Ian to go home with Henry requires bribery—the video games Emma planned on grounding him from over the weekend for faking sick, pizza for dinner, and a _Pirates of the Caribbean_ marathon; she knows she'll regret it later, but right now she needs him safely out of the way so she can rain down hell upon the fairies.

(Probably _not_ the most appropriate way to think about it considering they live in a convent.)

Killian waited patiently while Emma orchestrated Henry and Ian's departure from Regina's vault, and the moment the boys' voices fade completely from earshot, he turns to her expectantly.

Emma tells him in a rush what happened, what Merlin revealed. Killian's expression morphs rapidly from amazement to alarm, his face first draining of all color and then flushing red.

"No," he rasps, the same stubborn refusal Emma offered Merlin.

She grabs Killian's hand and squeezes. "Nothing's going to happen to Ian. I'm gonna handle it."

"That's not exactly an ideal alternative, love."

"It's the only alternative we've got."

Killian squeezes her hand back painfully hard, eyes sparking, his rings biting into her fingers.

Emma senses the Apprentice hovering and regards him warily.

"Did you know?" she asks. "About Ian?"

"No," he replies solemnly.

Emma secretly breathes an internal sigh of relief; she's grown to like the Apprentice, and it would have felt like betrayal if he had kept the truth about the prophecy from her.

"I knew Ian was special," the old man continues in a whisper, "but I never guessed that he had any connection to Excalibur." He scowls deeply, brow creasing. "Perhaps I should have reexamined that assumption after he retrieved the sword from the Lady of the Lake."

"It's okay," Emma says, thinking, _Perhaps I should have been a bit more suspicious about that myself_.

She turns back to Killian, who's still visibly wrestling with his anger.

"To the fairies?" she asks.

"To the fairies," he agrees, renewing his crushing grip on her fingers.

Emma glances around at her parents, at Regina. Snow and David are wearing identical worried frowns, but with the fierce protective gleam in their eyes that Emma knows means that, as always, they're ready to stand in the way of anything that threatens their family. Regina's grimace is thoughtful; Emma doesn't want to know why. She exhales and hefts Excalibur.

"What do I do with this now?" she wonders.

The sword is much lighter than she expected. It's longer than the practice swords she's been using with Killian, however, and that makes it awkward—its tip scrapes the stone floor jarringly as she attempts to find a comfortable angle to hold it at.

"Here, love," Killian says, reaching for it—but the moment his fingers brush the handle, he jerks his hand away and steps back, hissing sharply through his teeth.

Emma freezes. "What happened?"

"It…it shocked me," Killian says incredulously, shaking his hand out vigorously.

The Apprentice chuckles. "I think it's a sign," he says.

"A sign of what?" Killian demands.

"A sign that Excalibur believes Emma is worthy to fulfill the prophecy."

"Because it shocked me?"

"Because it hasn't shocked _Emma_. I'm willing to bet that if I or anyone else in this room tried to touch it, they'd receive the same shock."

Killian narrows his eyes in grudging acceptance, and then shrugs off his jacket. Carefully, he wraps Excalibur in it.

"I'll take the sword," David volunteers, moving in and lifting the leather-wrapped bundle from Emma's hands. "You take care of Emma."

Before she can be offended, Emma realizes her legs are trembling and her knees feel like Jell-O. Gratefully, she leans on Killian's arm and together they make their way out of the circular chamber and back along the vaulted hallway.

They're at the foot of the steps leading up to the mausoleum when the Apprentice stops them.

"I should warn you," he rumbles, "that beyond the protection of this vault, the Black Fairy may be able to sense Excalibur's existence now that it's whole again—if she does, she may decide to try and destroy it before it can destroy her."

Emma, Killian, and David—cradling the sword reverently—exchange looks.

"Should we leave it here then?" Emma asks the Apprentice.

"No, you should keep it close at all times. I just wanted you to be aware of the extra danger we're in."

"Splendid," Killian comments, his tone sarcastically pleasant.

Emma holds her breath all the way from the mausoleum to the car, the cold stinging her cheeks, but nothing happens, and twenty minutes later she's climbing the steps of the convent's massive stone porch with thundering footsteps, her anger returned and growing heavier by the minute, Killian's fury like a heatwave at her back. Everyone else stayed in their respective cars—except for David, leaning against the hood of his pickup with his arms folded over his chest.

It's probably Emma's imagination, but it seems as if the whole house shakes with the force of the three resounding blows she delivers to the front door. Blue answers it almost immediately, her small body wedged very unwelcomingly into the gap between door and frame.

"Was the ritual successful?"

Emma barely registers Blue's question. "You lied to me," she spits.

Blue doesn't bother feigning ignorance. She huffs, a look of resignation settling over her features. "How did you find out?"

"I just had a little chat with Merlin."

Blue nods, as if having conversations with centuries-dead wizards is normal. "Come inside," she says. "I'll get you something warm to drink and then we can talk."

"No." Emma doesn't want to go inside, she doesn't want to sit down and be served cookies and tea, she doesn't want to get _comfortable_—she wants to stay pissed off until she gets answers.

"Tell me right now what the _real_ prophecy is—who's supposed to fight the Last Battle."

Killian shifts, resettling his stance, hooking a thumb through his belt loop, the movement drawing attention to the cutlass at his hip.

Blue's eyes flicker to him, and then back to Emma. Her lips pucker sourly. "I think you already know the answer to that."

"I want to hear you say it," Emma snarls.

Blue rolls her eyes, and drones, "The prophecy refers to a twice-blessed child—"

"Twice-what?"

"Twice-_blessed_. We fairies believe that children born of True Love are blessed—not always with light magic, as you are, but blessed nonetheless."

"So twice-blessed means—"

"Blessed twice by True Love, yes," Blue explains patiently, "Once through his parents, and once through his grandparents."

"But he's not…we weren't…" Emma trails off and looks helplessly at Killian. The kiss that restored the Wishing Star in Neverland and the kiss that woke her from the Black Fairy's Sleeping Curse both revealed that their love is True Love, but 7 years ago in Neverland they weren't in love; they barely knew each other.

Blue smiles, as if she can read Emma's thoughts. "True Love is a strange and powerful thing. Sometimes all it takes is a spark."

Emma's cheeks warm, and she tucks that information away to examine later. To Blue, she says quietly, "Why didn't you tell us the truth from the beginning?"

"Because Ian's only a child. We decided it was best to pretend the prophecy refers to you, as it is undoubtedly _you_ that must now take your son's place in the Last Battle and defeat the Black Fairy."

"How am I supposed to do that if it's not _my_ destiny?" It's weariness that forces the question out of her mouth, despite how ashamed she is of how whiny she's beginning to sound.

"You'll find a way, Emma," Blue assures her softly. "It may not have been your destiny to fight the Last Battle, but you're still the Savior, and still the wielder of the most powerful light magic since Merlin—with the exception of your son, of course."

_Of course_.

Emma doesn't care that Ian will surpass her, she only regrets what Killian lamented all along, from the very moment they found out that Ian had magic: _it comes with a price_.

The price is responsibility—a responsibility Emma wishes Ian didn't have to be burdened with.

"_Now_ would you like to come in for some tea?" Blue prods, opening the door a bit wider.

"No," Emma replies tiredly. "Thank you, but I—"

She's interrupted by an earthquake, the ground buckling and rolling beneath her with a roar and a horrible, echoing ripping sound splitting the air.

Emma's legs give out and she folds; she lands on top of Killian, whom she thinks threw himself to the floor purposely to cushion her fall. He grunts, and Emma rolls off of him. They stare at each other, Emma from her hands and knees, Killian unabashedly clutching the testicles Emma apparently squashed.

Emma cringes. "Are you okay?"

"Aye," Killian says hoarsely, one eye wincing closed.

"Shit, I'm sorry."

"It's okay, love. I think we both know that they still work."

_The other daughter they saw in the vision of the Bean's future._

He grins. Emma blushes and sits back on her heels. She peers over the porch railing, giving Killian a moment to recover himself. "What do you think that was?"

"I don't know, love, but I reckon we should go find out."

"We'll help," Blue says crisply. Emma whirls and finds Blue and an army of fairies in matching navy coats and uniforms pouring from the door. "We've sat idly by for too long. It's time we joined this fight."

\---

It takes an hour's search to discover the source of the earthquake.

Or, _sources_, rather.

The site Emma and Killian are led to is one of several, they're informed, all located by something the fairies called _scrying_, and it's with her heart in her throat that Emma follows her parents, Blue, and a long line of Merry Men into the forest.

"We should just burn these fucking woods to the ground," she grumbles, chin tucked into her collar.

She's slogging through ankle-deep snow, the heels of David's boots the only thing she can see past the hood she has pulled low over her forehead, but she _feels_ the others glance at her.

"I'm serious," she insists. "Nothing good ever happens out here. Getting rid of the woods would solve like 99% of our problems."

Killian snorts softly behind her but no one else responds; Emma glares at the nearest tree and wonders vaguely how hard it would be to start a forest fire in Maine in the middle of winter.

(Probably pretty hard.)

Emma shifts her glare to the snow, counting the footprints she's carefully stepping into, trying to focus on literally anything except for how much she has to pee.

_One…_

God, she's so fucking tired.

_Two…_

And hungry.

_Three…_

And cold. She definitely didn't dress for an arctic hiking expedition.

_Four…_

She gets to _twenty-seven_ before she loses patience.

"So what is it, anyway?" she asks loudly. "What did you guys find?"

"You'll see when we get there," Blue says cryptically.

Emma burns with irritation until they reach their destination, and it's then that she understands why no one bothered trying to explain.

"What the fuck," she says.

"Bloody hell," Killian murmurs.

It's as if they passed in an instant from day into night, and all around them the woods are…_decomposing_.

The snow is gone, the exposed underbrush withered and blackened, the trees covered in grayish mold and rotting from the inside out—some are caved in or collapsed entirely, and floating everywhere are tiny embers, flickering purple in the gloom before crumbling to ash. It smells simultaneously like sulfur and mildew.

Emma swallows hard, fingers pressed to her nose and mouth. "What is this?"

"It's the Dark Realm," the Apprentice booms from her left. "It's beginning to seep into our world."

"This is one of the locations where a portal opened to let a spider from the Dark Realm in," Robin says.

"When the portals opened," the Apprentice continues, "the two worlds touched—our world, and the Dark Realm. It must have created a weak point."

"What about all the other portal sites?" Emma asks.

"They're like this."

"So the earthquake—"

"Was the Black Fairy tearing through those weak points, yes."

"Because of Excalibur?"

"It's too much of a coincidence for it to not be because of Excalibur. I was able to slow the Dark Realm's progress, but—"

"Slow it? You couldn't stop it?"

"No. It will continue to spread until the tears are sealed."

"The what?"

The Apprentice takes her by the elbow and marches her around the perimeter of the decay. When they stop, he points. "The tears."

Directly in the center of the diseased clearing is a vertical slash in midair, like a rip in fabric, and through it is a pulsing blackness rippling with purple light.

"My men say that there's one at every portal site," Robin reports.

Emma nods numbly, her eyes sliding past the tear to the woods beyond. Somewhere out there are more tears, the Dark Realm oozing into their world, poisoning it. How long before it engulfs the entire town? How much will the Black Fairy let it destroy before she comes for Emma?

"What do we do?" she whispers.

"We—"

Off in the trees, just at the edge of Emma's vision, something skitters by—something fast and with a lot of legs.

Everyone falls silent, listening, and when they hear it again, closer, they leap into action.

Emma flings her arm in a wide arc over her head, casting a shimmering net of light into the air that dispels the shadows. The others scatter, drawing their weapons as they dart off in different directions, some going for the noise directly, others angled to cut it off.

Emma's a step behind David and Killian. They split around a collapsed tree, Emma holding her breath at the putrid stink, and then Killian shouts. Emma sees David slash and Killian stab, and by the time she skids to a halt in the snow next to them, the spider is dead.

She stares at it, chest heaving.

This spider isn't like the others, it's only the size of a large dog, but as Emma's heartbeat slows, she hears more of them scrabbling around in the snow, fleeing deeper into the forest.

David and Killian hear it too. They lift their heads, looking first out into the trees, and then at her.

Emma sighs. "Well, this may as well happen. Let's go."


End file.
